Wherever You Are
by NotMarge
Summary: Annabel Margaret Walker, with her mismatched eyes and curious family history, is stepping out into the world. Her moms and dad are still out there too. Third and final in the Tattler/Darling saga.
1. Wherever You Are

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

* * *

She knew it was a long drive. You could see that on the map.

But nobody could really tell her just how long it was; it had to be driven to experience it. But she guessed that was kind of the way life was. People can tell you but they can't _tell_ you.

Annabelle Margaret Walker squared her shoulders, rolled her neck, took a deep breath and let it out real slow.

She was almost there; she was well on her way.

Somewhere in the middle of Tennessee and heading home to Brandon, Florida.

It was the first time she would be home since going to college.

Christmas break.

Crazy.

It seemed like so much longer.

Ma-Da and Ma-Ba sent letters every week, careful writing, full of uninteresting, boring details about the life of the typical American housewife.

But Ma-Da and Ma-Da . . .

"Your mom sends you two letters a week?"

"Yeah."

"Man, my mom doesn't have time to take away from swinging with her new boyfriends to write me a letter a _month_ , man! Much less two a _week_!"

"Oh, uh, I'm sorry."

"Why? You're not my mom."

"Uh, okay."

. . . weren't anywhere near typical, . . .

" _Dot has a cold and wants to take NyQuil but it just puts me to sleep and I don't have a cold."_

. . . were they?

Annabel gripped the steering wheel, twisting and wringing it until her hands ached.

She wanted to see her moms and Daddy too but she would have been lying if she said she wasn't nervous as hell.

Everything had been so weird between them for such a long while.

And then when she had come home after running away, they had just . . . forgiven her.

Like she was their daughter.

Well, of course she was their daughter.

But they hadn't held it over her head on a constant basis like they deserved a medal for taking care of their own child or anything.

Everything had just been okay.

It had been weird.

She had just known they would have hated her forever for screaming at them, telling them the truth, stealing money from Lucy, and running away.

But they didn't.

They just . . . loved her.

And that of course made her feel guilty all over again for abandoning them and going off to Colorado for school.

 _But it's my life, dammit. And I had to get away._

And she had.

Somewhere nobody . . .

"Hey, I'm Jenny."

"Annabel."

"Holy cow, your eyes are . . ."

 _Oh shit-_

". . . so groovy!"

 _Oh_.

"Thanks."

. . . knew her.

"So where're you from?"

"Florida."

"Wow, that's cool! Do you surf?"

"Sometimes. Mostly I just drown."

"Ahahaha! You're so funny!"

 _Well, thank you, nobody ever notices._

"Thanks."

She wasn't extremely popular at the University of Colorado or anything.

Some people still thought she was a freak . . .

"What the hell, man? You a witch or something?"

"That's right she is. So get the hell outta here before she curses you and your dick falls off, Gary!"

"Thanks, Jenny."

"No problem, Ana."

. . . with her mismatched eyes.

But at least she wasn't the freak with the two-headed . . .

"What's your mom like?"

"Oh, uh, well, you know. Typical mom."

"God, I wish my mom was typical. She's trying to work her way through all the men in Oregon. It's embarrassing."

"Mmm . . ."

. . . mom.

Annabel, twisted the wheel again, working her jaw.

She knew she shouldn't feel like this about Ma-Da and Ma-Ba, they were good moms but . . .

 _Ewww, just ewww._

. . . once she'd learned about sex and realized what was going between Daddy and them, it just . . .

 _Ewww._

. . . sent everything over the edge completely.

 _I mean, how am I supposed to deal with something like that anyway?_

She guessed it wasn't really her business what her parents did.

But it sure had . . .

 _"Hey Annabel, heard your dad's boingin' the women at his grocery store now! How much sausage does that guy have to have to satisfy her_ and _your two headed monster mom?"_

And she had hated them all.

The kids who heckled her, the kids who were silent and turned their noses up.

The teachers who treated her with stiff, vague revulsion.

Even worse, the teachers who took pity on her, patting her sadly and giving her sideways looks they thought she didn't see.

And she'd had to get out.

Mountains.

Mountains was how she had chosen Colorado.

The most beautiful mountains she'd ever seen.

So much different than anything else she had ever experienced, so much different than the flat, dreary nothingness that was Florida.

The ocean was okay, she guessed.

Good for surfing and staring into until everything about you faded away.

But mountains, oh.

Mountains were everything.

So she applied to the University of Colorado.

Along with Kentucky State and MTSU.

Nevada.

Combined Ma-Da and Ma-Ba's name on the space next to: Mother.

 _Dorothy . . . Elizabeth . . . Walker._

Waited on pins and needles.

And got accepted.

Everywhere.

Every single application accepted.

And chose . . .

 _They are never going to go for this._

. . . the mountains.

Moms had practically fainted dead away and even Daddy, the no-handed, Dandy-killing ex-carnie had seemed to slouch in defeat.

But then they had nodded, one by one. Summoned smiles.

And actually took tentative, burgeoning interest in the far away mountainous paradise of Colorado.

Annabel had felt surreal, relieved.

And had allowed herself to hope.

Allowed her heart to loosened, just a little.

Decided to make them happy, relax and try to be the good girl they wanted.

So she could leave knowing she had made them happy again.

Apologized to Lucy, whom she hadn't really meant to hurt in the first place.

And even worked with Daddy again . . .

"Welcome to Clark's. May I help you?"

. . . in his store.

And then in September, she had left.

Really left for the first time in her life.

And gone into the mountains.

And it . . . had . . . been . . .

"Hi, welcome to Boulder."

"Wow."

. . . unbelievable.

She had never _seen_ so many trees before.

So many colors.

And the mountains, oh, the mountains.

They were even better than the pictures!

They had surrounded her, enveloped her.

She thought she was dying but in heaven.

And a little lightheaded.

"What's up with the air? I feel like I can't breathe."

"It's the altitude. You get used to it."

And she had.

She had loved it.

Surrounded by the mountains, gasping for air but also wearing really cool sunglasses anytime she didn't want to to talk about her eyes anymore.

Propping them on top of her head when she was feeling a little more brave.

Haunting the thrift shops with the little money Daddy sent her, wrapping up in layers because . . .

 _Damn, I'm freezing!_

. . . it actually got cold for real here.

Going to class, grabbing a sandwich, going on hikes, staying up all night, sleeping til noon on the weekends.

Walking to the coffee shops, sitting in the commons.

Living on peanut butter crackers and Tang when she spent too much money in the pool hall.

And of course, just a little bit, pretending her parents were normal, average people.

Without any identifying features at all.

But now it was the holidays . . .

"Peace out, Ana! See you in nineteen-seventy-nine!"

"'Bye, Jenny!"

. . . and she was . . .

 _"Welcome to Alabama. Please drive safely."_

 _Yep, only eleven hundred more hours to go._

. . . finally going home.

* * *

 **Hello, all! How've you been?**

 **Interested in more of what once was the Tattler sisters and Jimmy Darling?**

 **I hope so.**

 **I'm thinking weekly Sunday updates.**

 **And if you think Annabel's still being a little unappreciate of her moms, well, give her some time, it's a journey.**

 **Talk out to me if you like because . . .**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback.**


	2. All Along the WatchTower

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

All Along the WatchTower

* * *

 _What time is it, Sister?_

 _From five minutes ago when you asked me and I told you it was 3:47? 3:52._

 _She'll be arriving anytime, don't you think? Won't she?_

 _I hope so. We've been waiting forever!_

It had been a little over three months since Dot and Bette had seen their only child.

She wasn't that big, just a slip of a still teenage girl when she left.

But there was so much less in the house now without her there.

Less food to cook . . .

 _Now, Sister, honestly, who is going to eat all these leftovers?_

 _Jimmy?_

 _For how many days?_

Less laundry to clean . . .

 _Well, I guess that's it._

 _Oh, already? What should we do now?_

 _Let's write letters to Annabel!_

 _What if her new friends make fun of her?_

 _Everybody has to make their own decisions in life and I'm deciding to write a letter to my daughter!_

Less noise . . .

 _I miss her music._

 _I'm not sure if I would call those Rolling Stones 'music' . . ._

 _You like watching Mick Jagger dance._

 _I'm not discussing that._

Less of everything, really.

Except time.

There was definitely more time.

Which they, with a little extra practice, found ways to fill.

"Yes, ma'am, we can have that cake ready in time for your husband's birthday party . . . Well, you are most welcome, Mrs. Covlton. See you then."

 _Don't you think this dress pattern would be lovely, Bette?_

 _Well, yes, Dot, but where would we wear it?_

 _We'll decide that later._

"Jimmy, do you think you could come home for lunch?"

"Is everything okay?"

"Of course, darling. We just wanted you to see us naked in the middle of the day."

"I'll be right there!"

But now they didn't have to fill the hours anymore, pleasantly so or otherwise . . .

"No, I do not wish to discuss the degradation of Christian values caused by the women's lib movement. Who is this? How did you get this number?"

. . . at least for a little while . . .

"Okay, Moms, see you then."

"Okay. We love you, Annabel!"

"Love you."

. . . because their sweet baby girl was coming home.

Today.

At some point.

Eventually.

 _I want her_ home _!_

 _Well, I don't think we want her to drive any faster, Bette._

 _Don't you be reasonable with me, Dorothy Jean._

Jimmy their darling opened and closed the back door, heading from the small kitchen toward the hall.

"Jimmy! Where are you going?"

He gestured vaguely with one hook.

"To the bathroom."

Bette looked alarmed.

"But Annabel's on her way! She should be arriving any minute! You don't want to miss her, do you?"

Jimmy paused, handsome face stumped.

"But I've got to pee."

As the bathroom door shut, Dot rolled her eyes.

 _Men. They just can't see past the present. Just can't consider anything other than-_

 _Dot?_

 _Yes, Sister?_

 _We have to pee._

* * *

They had time to visit the bathroom several times over before Annabel's car finally rolled into view down the street.

 _Sister!_

 _I see her!_

"Jimmy!"

"I'm right here."

And they opened the door and flew out onto the front lawn.

* * *

It wasn't that Jimmy wasn't excited his daughter was coming home from college.

He was.

His only child. His little girl.

She had gone off to a distant place far away from them.

Gone for months and months.

Having experiences he never even dreamed about.

 _College. Wow. How proud are you now, Ma?_

And now Annabel was coming home.

Finally.

For Christmas.

He remembered when she was a baby, her first Christmas.

He and the girls had decorated _everything_.

And it had been . . .

". . . daylight out here."

"Yeah, it's great, isn't it?"

 _. . . bright_.

And a drain on their finances.

"Oooh, Jimmy, this is going to run up the electric bill."

"It's Christmas."

And Annabel and her mismatched baby eyes hadn't seen much of any of it.

But Jimmy hadn't minded. Not in the least.

It was the feeling. It was the warmth.

It was his family.

His special, unique, little family.

The one he could never in a million years have imagined but now couldn't live without.

Bette. Dot. Annabel.

And him.

The Walkers. Well, Darling-Walkers secretly.

His family.

The Christmas decorations were almost done on the outside, the inside tree being delivered at the end of the week so it wouldn't completely die and shed its needles before Yuletide.

Not as many outdoor decorations this year as compared to Annabel's first.

 _Merry the hell Christmas. Whew._

But enough.

And he thought it looked good.

"Jimmy!"

And it had kept him from having to watch his wives pace back and forth, peering out the window every five seconds.

Arranging the couch pillows again.

Straighten the knitted tv watching quilt again.

And in general, make him antsier than a carnie without a carnival.

 _Well, except for me. I'm not a carnie anymore._

 _I don't think._

But thankfully . . .

"I'm right here."

. . . their waiting was over.

Because their daughter . . .

"Annabel!"

. . . was finally home.

"Hi, Moms! Hi, Daddy!"

* * *

 _Oh my god._

She had sat there for a second, unable to stop staring at them.

Ma-Da. Mad-Ba.

Their two smiling, hopeful faces angled atop their one stout body.

Her moms.

And Daddy, standing there with his shiny hooks.

Big handsome dimples smiling out of his face.

And then, suddenly trembling and shaking and swelling up from the inside out, Annabel had scrabbled out of the car.

And into her mothers' arms.

Face snuggled between their two attached necks.

Hearing their two different voices, so full of excitement and emotion.

She had been intending to stay cool, calm, and composed but that crumbled in the embrace of her moms.

"Oh, Annabel, darling, we're so glad to see you-"

"We've missed you so much!"

She pulled back a little after a moment and their tear-streaked oval faces filled her vison.

Smiling and sniffling, hands gently stroking her temples and jaw.

As if they were discovering her all over again.

"Oh, darling, you look wonderful!"

"Just so grownup!"

She grinned self-consciously, shrugging a little.

"Moms, it's only been a few months."

But she really did kinda get it.

Ma-Da scoffed lightly.

"Darling, it's been _forever_!"

They loosened their hold on her, allowing Annabel to come face-to-face with her father.

Doting, dimpled grin glowing out at her, dark eyes aglow with pride.

"Hey, Annabel."

She wrapped her arms around him, felt the familiar weight of his hooks around her back.

His shirt smelled like him, the buttons pressing into her cheek.

Letting go, she glimpsed a hint of tears just under his eyes.

And grinning, reached up and wiped them off for him so he wouldn't have to poke himself in the eye with a wayward hook.

Then Jimmy lifted his gaze from her to her exhausted blue car.

"Well, good drive in?"

* * *

 **Really glad to see some of you gentle readers interested in this story. I appreciate you all so much! :D**

 **Thanks in particular to midnightrebellion86, brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and Gwenyth Taylor Plunkett for taking the time to review.**

 **Not really a play on the song lyrics in the chapter title there, just the song title itself. Anyhoo . . .**

 **;)**


	3. Like Slipping Into a Warm Bath

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Like Slipping Into a Warm Bath

* * *

Annabel set her suitcase down on her bed and stared around at her bedroom.

Everything looked exactly the same.

Everything in the house and everything outside.

With the addition of all the Christmas.

 _Looks like Dad's been decorating again. Hello, Santa._

She had asked him once.

"How do you do all this with no real hands, Daddy?"

He had grinned at her fondly, squiching up his face in that special way of his.

"Usually with a lot of cussing."

And she had laughed.

"Dad _dy_."

He had shrugged then, gaze wandering around and then back to her again.

"Well, you know, Annabel, sometimes you just gotta figure it out and do the best you can."

She found herself grinning at the memory.

 _My Dad. The Handless Wonder._

 _Who sometimes kills people._

 _Well, not in a long time._

 _I don't think._

A light knock on her door drew her out of her reverie.

Moms were standing just outside her room.

"Hello, College Lady," Ma-Da surreshed gently. "May we come in?"

Annabel grinned slyly.

"Yeah, come on in and cop-a-squat."

Ma-Da looked a little dumbfounded as Ma-Ba snorted lightly in derision.

"If that doesn't mean sit down, we're leaving."

Annabel chuckled.

 _Okay, I love them_.

"Yeah, it means sit down."

So they did, carefully, primly, on the edge of her bed.

Them.

Her moms.

Matching hair and matching eyes and matching mouths.

Matching everything.

Even matching, she knew, love for her.

It was real. It was sweet.

And, now with her having been out in the world and returned, it was kinda bizarre and surreal.

Mostly because for her it wasn't.

It would be weird and crazy and strange and creepy for anybody else.

But for Annabel it was, well, just her moms.

All she had ever had.

All she had ever known.

"So how's college?"

They had talked on the phone here and there.

"Are you going to your classes?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, that's what I'm here for, right?"

The dorm rooms didn't have personal telephones.

You had to answer it, figure out who it belonged to, find them, and then they could talk to their loved one.

Explain why they had overcharged their credit card.

Wrecked the car.

Or simply . . .

"Do you need new underwear?"

 _"Mom!"_

. . . needed anything in particular.

And college kids, especially ones desperate for space and free air . . .

"Wow, Florida, huh, that's quite a distance."

"Yeah."

"Why'd you go so far? Parents assholes or something?"

"No, no. Just . . . needed some space."

. . . sometimes forget to call home that much.

"It's good. You know," Annabel shrugged." College."

Ma-Da smiled gently.

"Actually, no we don't. We never went to college. We never even went to grade school."

 _Oh yeah._

"Sorry."

Bette shook her head a little.

"No, Annabel, it's not like that. We've just never had the school experience. Tell us all about it!"

And then she smiled and then Ma-Da smiled a fraction of a second later . . .

 _Man, that's weird when they do that; like a stutter on a reel or something._

. . . and Annabel smiled . . .

 _Okay, okay, I give._

. . . and decided to stop being so difficult.

"Actually, it's really cool. Jenny and me went to the coffee shop with Harry the other day and . . ."

* * *

As the clouds parted and the skies cleared and Annabel actually opened up and started chattering on about her coffee shop friends . . .

 _I thought we asked about_ college _, Sister._

 _Well, this is good too. Let her talk._

. . . Dot and Bette Tattler-Darling-Walker observed their daughter.

She seemed about the same.

Thinner though.

 _Well, she hasn't been enjoying our home cooking, has she?_

But, seemingly . . .

. . . happy.

 _What do you think, Sister? Do you think she's had sex yet?_

 _What?! No! She's our baby!_

 _She's our grown daughter._

 _But she can't! She's our_ baby _!_

 _The time is about right._

 _No, it is_ not _!_

 _Alright, calm yourself, Darling._

 _You calm_ yourself _, Hot Lips!_

 _No need to bring M.A.S.H. into the conversation._

". . . to figure out for yourself, right?" Annabel concluded with worldly finality.

They barely managed to nod.

"Right."

Annabel grinned in a self-satisfied way and turned, tucking undergarments back into the dresser drawer.

"Do you want us to wash those for you, darling?"

Annabel tossed out a confused expression.

"Why? I did it at school before I left."

 _Oh, well, I guess she_ is _a little grownup._

 _A little._

"What about boys, Annabel?" Bette attempted. "Do you have any boyfriends?"

Annabel shrugged.

"No, not really. I mean, most guys are still put off a little by my eyes."

 _Oh dear, Sister._

 _I know. I'd hoped-_

"But they're shallow dumbasses so I wouldn't want anything to do with them anyway," Annabel stated, shutting the last drawer with a decisive thunk and turning back to her moms.

"What's for dinner? I'm starving."

* * *

It was lasagna and it was delicious.

"We hope you don't mind it being just the four of us," Dot stated, doling out more Italian goodness onto Annabel's plate. "We wanted you all to ourselves tonight."

The ravenous eighteen year old shook her head almost distractedly.

"No. That's cool."

Jimmy watched his daughter take a blissful bite . . .

 _That spot at the table's been empty too long._

. . . grinning.

Before opening his mouth to talk around his own delicious mouthful.

"Hey, how about we all go for a walk after dinner tonight? Look at the Christmas lights? Just like old times?"

 _Unless you're too big now to walk with your old man._

Annabel nodded around her fork.

"Sounds good."

* * *

The lights were pretty and festive.

The air breezy and subjectively cool-ish.

And afterward, in the comfort of their own home . . .

"Punching and pushing and calling someone names means you like them?"

. . . Mork and Mindy . . .

"Yeah, it can."

. . . were amusing . . .

"Then the cowboys and Indians are lovers?"

. . . as always.

Annabel sat between her father and one of her mothers, thinking how glad she was to be there and how weird it was that she was there and wondered what her empty dorm room was like when no one was there.

Then, eventually, after Carson, the evening was over.

They all hugged and kissed goodnight.

Dad and Moms heading off to bed and Annabel wondering how on earth any place could be so quiet as their home.

And then Daddy started snoring.

 _That's more like it._

And Annabel fell asleep too.

* * *

 **My husband is snoring over here next to me as I edit this. Must be a thing. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing!**

 **Next up, Annabel goes back to college and well . . .**


	4. Those Damn Allegories

I do not own American Horror Story: FreakShow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Those Damn Allegories

* * *

"Hey, what's up with this picture? Your mom looks like she's got two heads."

 _Oh shit._

She had hidden it between the pages of her notebook journal, a momento . . .

"Okay, everybody say 'cheese'!"

"Cheese!"

. . . from her first Christmas home from college.

Lucy had taken it on Christmas eve, right before they had opened their presents.

Dad in an awful Christmas tree sweater, much too hot for Florida . . .

"What? It's Christmas!"

. . . but he had insisted on wearing . . .

"Well, you better enjoy it, darling. I'm not pulling it off of you 'til later."

"We won't be _able_ to pull it off if you have any more pie!"

"Hey, hey, come here, you kiss the Pie-Faced Man-"

"Jimmy, no!"

. . . it anyway.

Moms, smiling and happy, hostesses extraordinaire with their homemade Christmas cookies and eggnog.

"This is delicious, Bette! Sure there isn't any liquor in it?"

"I'm sure. Santa doesn't need a hangover in the morning."

And Kathy and Thomas . . .

"So when are you going to upgrade to a bigger house, Jimmy?"

"Why would we do that? We've got all we need right here."

. . . engaging in pleasant conversation on a number . . .

"Did you hear about Reagan? They say he might be elected president next year!"

"What? The _actor_?"

. . . of topics.

Then Lucy had proudly pulled out her brand new Polaroid Instamatic . . .

"Say 'cheese'!"

"And I said, 'Patty, if you and Frank are going to have another baby, I want a-' -Cheese!- '-boy so we can . . ."

. . . and started snapping away.

And now here Annabel was.

"Okay, one for the parents and one more for the college girl. Say 'cheese!'"

Screwed.

"Oh, yeah, uh . . ."

She snatched it jokingly put of the snoopy little Jenny's hand.

". . . weird, huh? Stupid Polariod."

And stiffened up as the rubbernecker of a roommate rubbernecked over her shoulder.

"Really weird. I mean there's no blur or smudges. It even looks like the headband is two different colors."

Annabel casually crammed the incriminating evidence back into her notebook journal.

Jenny blathered on.

"She's really pretty though."

Annabel managed a grin.

"Thank-"

"What's up with your Dad's hands?"

 _Ah, crap._

 _Well, let's see. He had lobster claws and this guy said he would give him money for one for a criminal lawyer but then he cut off both and didn't even give him any money at all. Crazy, huh?_

"Oh, uh, he lost them in a logging accident up north a long time ago."

Jenny's eyes were round.

"No way! What does he do now?"

 _Well, he used to kill people in the freakshow but now-_

"He runs a grocery store."

Jenny seemed to deflate.

"Oh. Cool."

 _Yeah. Riveting._

"Want to go to the coffee shop?"

"Sure."

* * *

Later by herself, she sat on her bed, staring at the Polariod.

Ma-Da and Ma-Ba side by side, conjoined forever . . .

 _That would drive me crazy; don't they ever get sick of each other? I get sick of myself_ alone _._

. . . smiling and looking happy all the same.

Daddy and his handsome dimples, hooks on display . . .

"Are you okay, Daddy?"

"Yeah, these things just don't seem to be fitting like they used to. Makes my stumps hurt."

"Maybe you should go to the doctor and get fitted for some new ones."

"Ehhh. Maybe."

. . . looking so proud of his family.

 _We were so happy at Christmas. What happened?_

But she knew.

The world.

The world had happened.

The world that didn't understand; that would laugh and point and make fun of them.

The world that would call them, call them . . .

 _Call them freaks._

And Annabel didn't want them to be called freaks; _she_ didn't want to be called a freak.

She just wanted to be.

And she just didn't . . .

"Hey, wanna go to the coffee shop?"

"No."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. I just want to be left alone."

"You got your period or something?"

"Jenny!"

"What?"

. . . know how.

* * *

There was this story they were studying in Philosophy 101.

The Cave Allegory.

These guys . . .

 _Why is it always guys? Why can't it ever be girls doing something really profound and important?_

. . . chained up in this cave, facing a wall.

There's a light behind them and all they can see is shadows so they think the shadows are the real world.

Then proof, like a magic trick, one guy gets free and turns around and sees all this stuff in the cave that he had never seen before.

And it's more than just the shadows he had been looking at.

So he leaves the two other guys to starve or die or whatever and keeps searching and discovers that the cave wasn't all there was, not the real world and in fact when he gets out of the cave, there's this whole world out there, with sun and clouds and grass and all kinds of stuff.

And then he can never go back to the cave and watch the shadows anymore because he'll know it's not enough, it's not the real world.

Annabel felt like that sometimes.

Sometimes she felt so free and excited and happy and alive.

And sometimes, especially when she thought of her moms, she felt like she wanted to go back to that cave and watch the shadows because they were a time when everything was black and white and simple.

And she could just clearly believe.

But she couldn't, she had to keep going forward, up . . .

"Come on, I'm hungry, let's go to the Caf'."

. . . well, somewhere anyway.

"Okay. Cool."

* * *

"Hey, Moms."

"Hey, Annabel. How are you, darling?"

"Yeah, yeah. You okay?"

"We are. We were actually just bringing the clothes in from the line and we heard the phone."

"Oh. Do you want me to let you go?"

"No, darling, of course not. You're more important than towels."

"Mmmm . . ."

"Annabel? Is something wrong?"

"No, everything's copasetic."

"Is that college talk for 'okay'?"

"Yeah. Listen, I just wanted to tell you I love you both."

"We love you too, Annabel. Are you sure everything's alright?"

"Yeah. Listen I gotta go, okay? Tell Daddy I love him."

"Alright, darling. Goodbye."

"'Bye."

* * *

 _Dear Annabel,_

 _Dot and I were very happy to talk with you on the phone. We've missed you very much since the holidays._

 _We hope you know we are glad to be your moms. Wherever you go in life, wherever you are, please know that we love you and are proud of you just for being you._

 _In other Walker news, Bette has decided we are going to see Apocalypse Now in the theater because she likes Robert Duvall but I want to see Alien because-_

* * *

 **Surprise Wednesday Bonus Chapter. I'm off from work so ta-da!**

 **And yeah, you knew the real world was going to butt in, didn't you? :(**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing so kindly.**

 **See you Sunday!**


	5. The Mouth on That One

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Mouth On That One

* * *

And that was the way it went for the beginning of 1979.

Annabel went to class.

". . . meant when he said . . ."

 _Let's just save some time and you just_ tell _me the answer you expect us to give._

She hung out with friends.

". . . pool like this, Fran?"

"Prison."

Discussed the topics of the day.

"Ready to go watch the solar eclipse?"

"Sure. Let's go stare at the sun until our eyeballs burst into flame."

And in general . . .

"Oh my god! Three Mile Island just blew up!"

"What's that?"

. . . pretended to be a completely normal college student.

"You ready for the American Lit test?"

"I don't know, The Grapes of Wrath is about to make me blow my brains out."

Except she really wasn't entirely normal.

 _"Dear Annabel,_

 _Bette and Jimmy want to try fondue with the Clarks Thursday night. I don't know why they want to burn their mouths with hot, melted cheese but . . ."_

People still gaped when they saw her eyes for the first time.

"Whoa, um, did you know you have two different color eyes?"

"You're kidding."

Carefully didn't notice them when they had known her for more than sixteen seconds.

"Do you see differently from them?"

"No. I can still recognise an idiot from either eye."

"Haha . . . wait . . ."

And knight-heartedly defended her when they had decided to be her friend . . .

"Annabel's got the most beautiful _skin_ , don't you think?"

 _Good save, Jenny._

. . . anyway.

Annabel, having dealt with this mostly dull itch, sometimes flaming rash of a personal issue . . .

 _God, I wish I_ were _blind. Or everyone else was._

. . . her entire life, soldiered on.

Mainly because she didn't have any other choice.

And eventually . . .

". . . 4.0, Ana?!"

"Just a genius, I guess."

. . . completed her first year of . . .

"See you in September!"

"Bye."

. . . college.

 _Hallelujah._

 _Oh crap. Now I'm bored._

* * *

"That'll be fourteen ninety-three, Mrs. Dodd."

"Alright. Here you go."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dodd."

"If you don't mind me asking, dear, do you have a fella?"

"No."

"How old are you now?"

"Almost nineteen, Mrs. Dodd. Here's your change."

"Well, you're young yet. Thank you. There's still time."

"Time for what?"

"Time for a fella. A suitor. A boy, dear."

"Oh, that. Well, I'm not really into that."

"Oh. Well. Are you into . . . girls then?"

"Actually, I'm into monkeys. Great, big, well-hung primates with huge, hairy-"

"Annabel! I'm sorry, Mrs. Dodd."

"Oh, well, um . . ."

"Would you like the stockboy carry those bags out for you, Mrs. Dodd?"

"Well, uh, yes, thank you, uh-"

"No problem, Mrs. Dodd. Have a nice day . . . Annabel!"

"What? She was being a snooty, little, presumptive bit-"

"Annabel, stop it. That's not funny!"

"Then why do you look like you're trying not to laugh, Daddy?"

* * *

"Oh my _god_ , she did not say that!"

"Yes, she did, Bette! Poor Mrs. Dodd looked so confused. I almost felt sorry for her."

Dorothy Jean Tattler-Darling-Walker and Elizabeth Ann Tattler-Darling-Walker reigned in their giggles and steadied their hands as they freed their darling Jimmy-Darling-Walker's withered stumps from their prosthetic bondage that summer evening.

Rubbing the soreness away.

Carefully wrapping them up in the wooden ones.

"She's sure got a mouth on her," Bette admitted aloud for Jimmy's nonconjoined communicative disadvantage as they worked.

"I wonder where she gets it from," Dot drawled gently, following suit.

Jimmy rolled his eyes.

"Are you _suggesting_ something, my darling wives?"

The girls sniggered aloud.

"Oh, well, we seem to remember you having quite a mouth on _you_ at one time, Dear Husband."

The old Jimmy resurfaced for a moment, leering charmingly at his beautiful broads.

"Yeah, well, come a little closer and I'll show you just what this mouth can do."

"Jimmy . . ."

 _Knock, knock, knock._

 _Dammit._

"Lucy's here."

Jimmy cut a falsely baleful glance at the door and his daughter's voice on the other side.

"Okay."

"Still," Dot continued, as if they'd never been on the edge of tryst-ing at all. "I prefer her full of fire and spirit rather than wounded and hurt."

Jimmy nodded.

"Yeah, she's a fighter. Always has been."

 _Ma would be proud._

"Oh, and by the way . . ."

Jimmy's eyes slipped closed as simultaneous kisses smoked along and up either cheek and temple.

Then shamelessly inflamed him with breathy whispers along the ridges of his ears.

"You just bring that mouth of yours right back here this evening and we'll pick up where we left off. Darling."

Then Bette and Dot, smiling wickedly, sashayed from the room, leaving him alone to take a moment to make sure he was presentable . . .

 _Whew, not bad for fifty-two._

. . . before following along behind.

"Hey, Lucy! How are ya?"

* * *

As it turned out, Lucy, their friend who had come such a long way, was going even further than anyone . . .

". . . drive the ambulance because they didn't think I could handle an emergency situation."

. . . at least the males in her profession . . .

". . . fainted dead away and I jumped in and tied the tourniquet."

. . . had expected her to ever go.

"So I suppose in a way, I have Max to thank for beating and abusing me all those years so I could learn to handle stress."

Lucy never much mentioned the man who had knocked out her teeth, damaged her internal organs, nearly broken her mind.

And possibly murdered her newborn son.

She seemed to have moved on from him, buried him in the graveyard of her past.

Though he did seem to crop up . . .

"Never let a man control your body and mind, Annabel. If you want one, find a good one who loves you and supports your choices. Like your daddy. He's a good man."

"Okay, Aunt Lucy. No problem."

. . . from time to time.

* * *

Speaking of boys, the beginning of the fall semester of 1979 gifted Annabel with one.

"Kenny."

Finally.

"Kenny? Really?"

Sort of.

"Well, yeah, Jenny. Why?"

Maybe.

"I don't know. He's kind of . . .weird."

She thought.

 _I like him alright._

 _I think._

* * *

It was . . . nice.

They went to movies.

" . . . blessed are the meek! I'm glad they're getting something, they had a hell of a time..."

 _I don't think Reverend Miller would like Life of Brian very much._

They studied.

"Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking."

 _Thank you, Marcus Aurelius. Live my life._

And of course, went to the coffee shop with friends.

". . . hundred thousand people? I mean can you imagine?"

"It's New York. They demonstrate everything."

"Anna _bel_."

"What?"

It wasn't Love Story by any means.

But it was nice.

For a while.

* * *

And then it ended.

"Hey, Ana, listen, I just wanted to say bye."

The man-boy . . .

 _Yeah, I know, but he's sweet. And he doesn't mind my eyes._

. . . stood there in the Colorado sun, mountains winking over his back.

As she stared at him quizzically.

"Bye? Whaddya mean 'bye'? The semester just started."

He shuffled but seemed determined.

"I'm, I'm going to Washington."

"State or capital?"

"Capital. There's going to be a march."

"Another anti-nuclear thing? I didn't know you were political."

He cut his eyes everywhere but finally came back to her.

"I'm not. I'm . . . I'm gay."

And it dawned on her.

"What?"

 _Well, of course he is. I just didn't know._

But Kenny did.

And he spoke quietly, as if scared of her reaction.

"I'm gay, Ana. And I haven't told anybody here. I was trying to reinvent myself but . . . I can't. This is who I am."

Her heart dropped, but only because something that wasn't really real was going away.

"Oh. So when you kissed me before Christmas . . ."

"Yeah. I was trying to be who I thought I was supposed to be. And I do like you, Ana, I do. I actually love you. You're so sweet and smart and bitchy when you have to be. You're so . . . you, you know? But I gotta be me. I gotta be real."

 _Real. Yeah._

He had already told her how real he wanted to be.

"I wanna swing naked from the top of the Effiel Tower!"

"I wanna have weightless sex in space!"

"I wanna just go totally crazy, just be me, and free and wild, don't you, Ana?"

And she had thought that it sounded weird, sounded off . . .

 _Wow, how much pot have you been smoking, Kenny?_

. . . but she was weird, her family was weird, and he was nice and friendly and didn't harp on her eyes, and well, it was nice to have somebody pay nice attention to her.

Even if it wasn't all fireworks and pounding hearts.

It was still nice.

She hadn't really been sure if they had been a serious 'couple' or anything.

 _Just . . . friends . . . who sometimes . . . kiss?_

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Ana. I was trying to change. I just . . . I can't, you know? This is me."

He looked so worried, so sincere, Annabel wanted to cry.

Or laugh.

Instead, she grabbed him.

Him with his messy brown hair. Skinny shoulders.

Beyond hyper personality.

And sweet, sweet heart.

Hugged him tight.

Felt his arms around her.

Wondered if that feeling would ever be any different with anybody else.

And remembered Kenny was the one having a major life crisis here. Not her.

"It's okay. We're good."

She pulled back, kissing him this time not on the mouth in an awkward liplock, but on the cheek as a friend.

Then she looked him in the eyes. Sweet eyes right in line with hers.

"You're a good guy, okay, Kenny? To hell with everybody else. You're just fine; you're great."

His bright blue eyes misted over and his slightly effeminate voice came out huskier than usual.

"Thanks, Ana. You're beautiful. Your eyes and everything, okay? Don't forget that."

And then she let him go and watched him walk away.

 _My first kinda boyfriend was gay._

 _Okay._

* * *

 **Not making fun of gay people here in the last section here 'cause this part is the truth. In part.**

 **The weird quotes definitely are.** **But the good heart is too.**

 **So anyway, hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!**

 **Thanks especially to autumnrose2010 and brigid1318 for previously reviewing. :)**

 **Planning on another midweek post so see you then!**


	6. Guess I'll Just Be a Nun Then

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Guess I'll Just a Be Nun Then. Or Maybe Not

* * *

She watched for him on the news coverage on the march.

". . . estimated tens of thousands marched on Washington today . . ."

Knowing she'd never see him.

". . . rights for all of us . . ."

But thinking . . .

". . . rainbow flags and chanting . . ."

. . . maybe she should have gone . . .

". . . women's lib supporters as well . . ."

. . . to support him.

"What the hell are you watching, Ana?"

"News. Where's your bra?"

"Date night, baby. Bras are for old biddies. Bye."

But he was there and she was here.

"Bye."

With nothing interesting about her . . .

". . . the country has ever seen . . ."

. . . but a two-headed set of moms and a set of heterchromiated eyes.

* * *

So Kenny was gone.

 _Maybe he met the love of his life at the march and they ran away to have weightless space sex on the Eiffel Tower. That'd be nice for him._

And Annabel was alone.

 _I don't think I could handle Eiffel Tower space sex._

And sexuality was on everybody's minds.

 _And I'm not a guy. So it's probably for the best._

And love.

Annabel wanted to be loved.

Romantically loved.

Passionately, romantically loved.

Like any other young, virile woman of her time.

Preferably by someone handsome like Robert Redford or Kris Kristofferson.

 _Well, maybe someone a little younger._

The problem was she had a distinct lack of trust, a clear hesitancy.

 _What if they find out about Moms?_

 _What if they find out about me being a freak?_

 _What if they're a dick and I don't know it 'til I'm stuck?_

It was a lot to consider, a lot to deal with.

And frankly, though she really, _really_ wanted to experience sex, she could take care of that herself just fine anyway.

And not worry about jerks.

Or pregnancy.

So that was okay.

* * *

"Hey, Annabel. What's up?"

It had taken her a long time to get used to co-ed dorms.

 _They just walk around like they belong here or something?_

 _Even in their_ towels _sometimes?_

Of course, Dad did.

 _But none of these guys are Dad._

 _For one thing, they all have real hands._

 _With fingers._

 _Mmm, fingers . . ._

 _. . ._

 _I gotta go._

But eventually she got used to it.

"Hey, Gus. Nothing."

"What're you reading?"

Now it was second nature.

"Sophie's Choice."

"What's it about?"

Well . . .

"Bad choices."

"Oh. Okay."

". . . almost second nature.

"So what are you doing down here reading about bad choices?"

As much as it could be anyway.

"Nothing. Jenny's got Doug in our room so-"

What with having roommates and all.

"Oh. Want a pretzel?"

And some of the boys . . .

"Thanks."

. . . were even quite nice.

* * *

But somewhere along the beginning of the Iran Hostage Crisis . . .

 _What the hell is going on with the world, man?_

. . . when she had begun dreaming she was Wonder Woman, saving their lives . . .

 _"Thank you, Wonder Woman!"_

 _"You're welcome, government civil servant. Now go learn to kick ass on your own!"_

. . . she saw _him_.

She was sitting on a washing machine, frowning intently at her abnormal psych notes.

 _Manipulative, dominating, egocentric-_

. . . when he walked in the door.

 _-incites emotional chaos-_

At first she didn't notice him.

 _\- devoid of remorse/empathy-_

Because she was memorizing the traits of textbook sociopaths.

And . . .

 _My bras are my bras, okay, people? Nobody else's._

She was only there to protect her laundry . . .

 _Because I'm an old biddy apparently._

. . . anyway.

And then she looked up.

 _Oh. My. God._

And would have thrown her all undergarments at him.

 _I think . . ._

Along with everything that was in them.

 _. . . I'm in love._

He glanced her way and she immediately hid her heterchromiated gaze in an air of intense college concentration.

He came over closer, laundry bag of no doubt sweaty man garments all twisted up together-

"Do you mind scooting over? You're blocking the slot."

 _Isn't that my job as a virg- oh._

She scooted.

He was tall and had dark, wavy hair.

She thought he might have blue or brown eyes.

Well, she knew he had eyes anyway.

And a really nice ass.

And that he . . .

 _Is that Cheer?_

. . . did his own laundry.

Which was a plus.

* * *

"So what's your name?"

"Annabel."

"I'm Gary."

"Hi."

* * *

He never mentioned her eyes.

But he did ask her out to dinner a week later.

 _Me? Really?_

And she found herself grinning.

 _Screeeeeeeee-_

As she heard herself say yes.

* * *

"Hey, Jenny, what do you wear to dinner and a movie?"

"Not a bra, that's for sure."

 _Never mind._

She chose black.

And a bra.

* * *

He picked her up in his car.

"Wow."

1979 black Dodge Charger.

Gold eagle on the hood.

Leather seats. Cassette deck.

Fully loaded.

"Nice car."

It made her baby blue Pinto look even more tired and worn.

So she decided not to mention that part.

He beamed proudly.

"Thanks. Last year's Christmas gift. My dad's an investment banker."

 _Damn. Where does he buy his milk?_

Then he told her . . .

". . . fifteen miles to the gallon . . ."

 _Mine gets twenty-two._

. . . all about his fantastic car.

* * *

Dinner was good.

"More French bread?"

"No, thanks."

Conversation not bad.

"What's your major?"

"Engineering. You?"

Especially considering her bundle of nerves.

"English."

"Oh. So you're good at . . . writing?"

And the fact that she was wondering if she had been smart or not in wearing a bra.

"Sometimes. So what movie are you thinking?"

"How do you feel about Star Trek?"

Annabel shrugged.

"Beam me up, Scotty."

Then she flashed the Live Long and Prosper sign.

And watched him grin.

 _Screeeeeee_ -

* * *

And the movie was good.

"Bones, there's a . . . thing . . . out there."

"Why is any object we don't understand always called "a thing?"

 _Good point._

 _Wait._

 _Does that make me a thing?_

The popcorn was good.

 _Um. Buttery._

Gary's hand creeping slowly from her shoulder to her breast . . .

 _Oooooh . . ._

. . . making her tingle and flutter on the inside.

 _Screeee - Wait a minute._

Even though . . .

 _Isn't he supposed ask or something?_

. . . she wasn't sure how her _brain_ actually felt about it.

But then his hand stopped just at the rise . . .

 _What should I do, Mr. Spock? Eh, look who you're traveling with. You're useless._

. . . so she decided to . . .

 _Should I be relieved or offended that he stopped?_

. . . not mention it.

"We all create God in our own image."

 _Alright, Commander Decker, have you been hiding out in my two o'clock philosophy class?_

* * *

 **I can honestly say I do not miss the anxiety of dating. But that's just me.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for continuing to review. I really appreciate you guys. :)**


	7. In Cars With Boys

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

In Cars With Boys

* * *

They talked a little on the drive back to the dorm.

". . . Fort Collins but I said I gotta go farther, right?"

 _Sure. A whole hour. Pioneer._

But she was really rather enjoying it.

Pretending to be normal.

Mostly.

 _Now he's going to ask me about my family. What do I say?_

But he didn't.

He rather seemed . . .

". . . his bank as backup but I think I'd like to . . ."

. . . more interested in talking about himself instead.

". . . way to make some good money . . ."

Which was fine with her.

". . . nice little portfolio . . ."

She thought.

". . . ski dues somehow, right?"

When they passed the sign for the campus, Annabel almost breathed a sigh of relief.

And then he slowed to a stop on the outside perpherial of the campus.

 _Why - oh._

"So, you have a good time tonight?"

"Yeah. It was nice. Thank you."

Moonlight glittered on the nearby lake to their right.

 _Oh boy. He's about kiss me._

And she just knew something special was about to happen.

"Moonlight's pretty."

He was turned to her now, arm thrown over the side of the backrest.

"Yeah."

Edging himself toward her as she pretended not to notice.

"Not as pretty as you."

Hand reaching out for her hair, twisting it around his fingers.

"Oh. Thank you."

And then he was leaning in for a kiss.

It was nice. She thought.

Better than Kenny anyway.

So maybe this one wasn't gay.

He kept edging in, kept kissing her.

English Leather cologne filling up her nostrils, too heavy and thick and musky for her taste.

His mouth opening now, trying to force hers-

 _Hang on there-_

-wider.

She made a noise, something akin to ' _mmmhmf'_ as she lost her breath in the blitz of the moment.

So she tried again.

"Ooh, uh-" she began, around his mouth.

And then things went into overdrive and he kind of . . . threw himself top of her.

 _Hey, whoa, heyyy-_

And it wasn't . . . bad.

Not exactly.

His hands, one around her back in a slightly crushing embrace.

The other hand unbuttoning her coat for better access.

While hers tried to find some comfortable purchase around him in the wake of his . . .

 _-assault-_

-advance.

 _This isn't like Love Story at all._

His tongue rooting around in her mouth and his lips working like she was a tenderized steak tasted like popcorn and his hands kneeding her breasts like dough over her turtlenecked top were gentle enough.

 _Oooh. Ouch. Hey-_

Mostly.

"Mmm, you're so hot."

And they were on a date, she guessed.

And it did feel kind of good.

"Mmm . . . um . . ."

It was just . . .

"I've been waiting to get at you all night."

. . . abrupt.

". . . um, hang on . . ."

Like a switch had been flipped.

One hand now starting to rummage for the hem of her blouse, work its way under to her bare flesh-

"Mmm, you're so hot-"

\- while his face now stayed buried in her neck, nipping here and there-

"Gary, wait. Stop. Hang on."

. . . was kind of freaking her out.

And he did stop.

Drawing back, even removing a hand from under blouse where it had been groping for her bra.

"What? Hey, it's okay."

He grinned, probably trying to look charming and devilish.

But it just came off as lecherous.

She tried to smile back even so.

 _This is what grownups do. This is supposed to be a good thing._

 _What I've wanted._

 _I think._

And it did feel good.

A little.

It was just-

"We need to slow down some, Gary. We don't know each other that well."

He grinned lavasciously and nodding, leaned back in for her throat.

"Yeah sure. No problem. It's okay."

And then he was going right back in for her, this time hand working at the jeaned flesh of her inner thigh.

"I respect you and all that-"

Muttered words slobbering carelessly out of his greedy mouth.

"And you don't have to worry about your eyes either-"

Annabel's ears straining to hear over the mixed, confused shouting of her other senses.

"-in the dark, you can hardly see 'em anyway."

 _Wait. What?_

And she heaved, right as his palm cupped up against her crotch, _heaved_ him up and away from her.

"Hey!"

His face was red and sweaty and his sweat and slobber was all over her neck and her body was on fire with primitive lust and rising rage.

"In the light, you can hardly see my _eyes_?!"

He was looking angry now and probably a little hung-

"Yeah, so you don't have to worry about them," he explained huffly. "Come on, Ann-"

 _What the hell, when did I become 'Ann'?_

". . . I said it doesn't bother me so you don't have to worry."

He reached for her again and she pushed him away.

"Worry?! Why would I be worried-"

 _Shit, I was._

 _Shut up._

"-about you seeing my eyes?!"

He was definitely looking angry now and she was steadily becoming aware that he was bigger and stronger than her and that they were very alone where he had parked them.

But Annabel Margaret Walker had never backed down from a fight yet and she sure as shit wasn't going to start now.

"I thought you asked me out because you _liked_ me!"

"I do, can't you _tell_?!"

Their voices were raised now, though probably not in the way good ol' Gary had been thinking they would be.

"You should be _grateful_!" he spat at her. "I've been taking a lot of flack for slumming with a girl-"

 _Say it! A freak, right?!_

". . . like you! But I didn't care because I liked you even _with_ your eyes!"

Humiliation and shame welled up in her.

"Well, don't bother! We're done here. Take me back home!"

His face was puce with righteous indignation.

"What?! I paid for dinner! You _owe_ me!"

She gaped at him.

"I owe you _sex_ for _food_?!"

" _And_ the movie _and_ the popcorn! You owe me _something_!"

His hateful, handsome face was more than she could bear.

She fumbled for the door latch while stubbornly holding her tears in check.

And practically fell out of the car, dragging her purse with her.

Heading resolutely back to campus in the below freezing winter chill.

Gary's voice calling out to her as he too exited the car.

"Hey, where are you going?! Hey, come _back_ here!"

As his heavy hand swiveled her back to him, Aunt Lucy's self defense classes she had made Annabel attend with her paid off.

Gary's engorged manhood finally made contact with Annabel.

Via her bony knee to his crotch.

Hard.

"Aaack . . ." he gagged out as he released his grip on her in favor of his wounded giblets.

And as he sank to the pavement, _Annabel turned._

 _Raced back to the car and threw herself into the driver's seat._

 _Twisted the key so hard it almost snapped off and ripped the gearshift_ _into drive._

 _Stomped on the gas and jerked the wheel and in an enraged squawl of burning rubber, powered it full speed into the moonlight kissed, romantic, bastard lake._

 _A tidal wave whooshed up the windshield as the newly waxed and detailed car crashed into the water._

 _Blood burst from Annabel's nose as her face smashed into the steering wheel._

 _Stars whirled behind her stupidly heterchromiated eyes and she lolled between consciousness and possible drowning._

 _The dim outline of a heavy set woman with short hair and a hairy chin floated in the passenger seat next to her-_

 _"Better get to swimmin', girl. Ain't no reason to stay here and drown on account of this jackass."_

And then she came back to herself, standing on the pavement, staring down at the moaning, groaning, piece of crap dickhead crumpled on the snowblown pavement at her feet.

". . . iiitchhh . . ."

His gurgles were barely seconds old.

Dismissing him and his bruised balls, Annabel Margaret Walker turned.

And ran like hell through the semi-darkness back toward campus.

* * *

 **Maybe predictable but it is a reality for many girls. I hope I handled it honestly out of respect for anyone who's had to deal with this kind of experience.**

 **Thanks to midnightrebellion86 and brigid1318 for reviewing. :)**

 **Thanks also to BlackButlerFan13 for adding your support to this story. :)**

 **Probably post another Wednesday chapter since I'm off that day. See you then!**


	8. Aftermath

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Aftermath

* * *

"Hey! You're back early. Whoa, you _did_ have fun!"

The Annabel in the mirror over the wide-eyed Jenny's shoulder was redfaced and sweating.

Her hair was wild and tangled from the evening's athletic events and under her navy coat, her blouse was twisted and disheveled.

Her feet hurt and her purse hung limply from one frozen claw-like hand.

Then Jenny looked again.

"You _didn't_ have fun?"

Annabel dumped the contents of the purse on her bed without responding.

Then holding the now empty bag in one hand, she snatched up her robe, towel, and shower supplies.

And fled the room.

In the bathroom, she locked the door, ripped off all of her clothes, including her shoes and coat, and stuffed them into the garbage can along with her purse.

Then she turned on the shower full blast and stood under it until her back turned angry and red as the rest of her.

And she ran out of tears.

* * *

The next day, she went to the campus police center and filed a report . . .

". . . ask yourself what you were prompting him to think, parking in a secluded area during a date."

" _He_ parked the car, not _me_."

"Girls who expect respect don't generally put themselves compromising situations, Miss Wittaker."

"It's _Walker_! And I didn't _know_!"

. . . in spite of what could only be termed as unsupportive help.

And went back to class.

"Ana, sweetie, don't get mad but . . . Gary's telling everybody you were worse the worst lay he's ever had. And that your eyes switch colors when you cum."

Or tried to.

She jammed all of her emotions deep down in her gut and slammed her brain shut.

"Well that's stupid. He couldn't make a woman orgasm if he had a leaf blower instead of that little pencil dick he's got. And anyway, I didn't even have sex with him. Not even close. He's a moron."

Then she stawartly turned away and went on with her life.

Which now included downing antiacids . . .

 _I want to go home. I want to go home._

. . . and crying in the locked shower.

* * *

"Hey, I need to borrow your extra coat for a while."

"Why?"

"So I can go buy a coat."

"Are you okay?"

"Well, I'm just freaking fantastic, Jenny. How the hell are you?"

"Are you on something?"

"No, but god I wish I was."

"I got some quaaludes here, you want one?"

"No."

* * *

About a week after what Annabel would forever remember as the Worst First Date Ever, she walked past the infamous Gary Car in the parking lot.

She paused.

 _I hate you._

She was still crying in the shower and taking antiacids for her stomach.

And there Gary was, big, strong, handsome, popular, rich guy.

With his big, nice car he . . . loved . . . so . . . much.

The door was unlocked, keys dangling from the ignition slot.

And nobody was looking.

 _I can't eat. I can't sleep._

On impulse, she jerked open the door, reached in.

And snatched them.

 _I hate you._

Slamming the door casually, Annabel walked away.

 _Nothing to see here, fellow collegiates._

She refused to admit she was shaking inside her big, warm, brand-new Colorado coat.

 _Just a little automotive revenge._

Halfway across campus, she unceremoniously dropped them down a sewer grate.

 _Drive your car now, asshole._

And went to lunch.

* * *

"Oh my god, Annabel, did you hear what happened?"

It had been several days. She had almost forgotten.

"No. What?"

"It's Gary's car! He couldn't find his keys; he swears he left them in his car but he couldn't find them! It just got towed! They even dented the bumper and scratched the paint!"

"Wow. That sucks."

"He was practically crying!"

"Bummer."

After that, she felt a little better.

* * *

"Welcome home, Annabel! Happy holid- hey, what's wrong?"

 _One thousand, eight hundred seventy-nine miles and half a college campus later in a darkened dorm, midnight silence broken only by the sound of quietly terrified gasps-_

 _"Ohh, ohh god, who are you?!"_

 _\- and a silky, deadly calm undertone-_

 _"I'm Jimmy. I'm Annabel's dad."_

 _The flash of a hook, sharpened to a eviserating point-_

 _"Wha-what do you want?"_

 _Resting none to gently against an exposed throat bobbing with blind fear as the lips surreshed close to his ear-_

 _"I want you to apologize to my daughter. I want you to admit what a steaming, disgusting piece of shit you are."_

 _Metal pressing promisingly to flesh._

 _"Then I want you to leave this college. Leave this state. Get the hell out of Dodge and never come back."_

 _Hungry to spill blood._

 _"Work as a pig sty slopper. A septic tank cleaner."_

 _Hungry to exact vengeance._

 _"And if you ever treat another girl the way you treated my daughter, I'll find out. I have ways."_

 _Exact justice._

 _"And I'll come back and rip out your guts with my hooks. And shove 'em up your ass."_

 _A thick putrid stench filled the air, prompting a low chuckle from the man in the shadows._

 _"Smells like you soiled yourself, you piece of shit coward. Tell you what. You just lay in it 'til dawn. Wouldn't want to wake up your dainty little girlfriend next to you there."_

 _And then the hook-handed man was gone, leaving the trembling, befouled one in a spreading mess of his own filth, crying and humiliated in the gaping darkness of the rest of his lif-_

"-bel? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Daddy. I just missed you guys. Can we go in now?"

"Yeah, sure. Of course. Your moms made Christmas tree cookies. You want one?"

"Yeah. Sure. Sounds good."

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just glad to be home."

* * *

 **No, I don't think Annabel's developing a mental problem. But daydreams can be therapeutic. Especially wicked ones. ;)**

 **Speaking of good things, thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010,and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing!**

 **Thanks also to spud329 for adding your support to this story!**

 **Happy holidays if you celebrate. And if not, eat something anyway, yeah? ;)**


	9. The Rest of Your Life

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Rest of Your Life

* * *

And he would have done it too.

Daddy would have totally lost his shit and gone and done something really bad to Gary that he couldn't take back.

Something worse than the car.

Something bloody and terrible and wonderful.

And then he would have gone to prison because people got caught for stuff like that now.

Even ex-carnies who had killed before.

So she didn't tell her parents.

Save for her one mistake of going to the college authorities for help, she decided she was never going to tell anybody else either.

She would just . . . put it away.

 _I hate him._

 _He's never doing that to me again._

 _And nobody else is either._

She would just put him away.

 _I can't trust anybody._

 _But I'll be okay. I'll be better._

Eventually.

 _Eventually._

This Annabel promised herself as she watched the clock tick slowly on to midnight on New Year's Eve.

* * *

1980.

The first year of the rest of her life was one day longer than typical.

And that was about it.

Contrary to the previous year, Annabel Margaret Walker could not have _been_ less interested in romance.

She was all about self focus, self improvement.

And sometimes . . .

"What's up, buttercup?"

"Nothin' green, jelly bean."

"Want to come hang out?"

"No. I'm good. Thanks though."

"Okay."

. . . just self.

She went to class.

 _Am I am an agnostic now? I don't know. I know I need an aspirin now. Huh. Made that rhyme._

She went to the Caf'.

" . . . Salisbury steak is good."

 _My Moms could make it better._

She went hiking.

"Did you ever just want to jump off the side and fly?"

"Okay, Ana, step away from the edge."

"I'm not gonna jump; I'm not suicidal. But haven't you ever just want to be free?"

"Okay, seriously, you're freely freakin' me out."

And she did hang out with friends.

Some.

"Hey, Annabel, there's this guy-"

"No."

"But he's-"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well . . . can I have him?"

"Knock yourself out, Jenny."

* * *

She watched history happen.

Prison riots and earthquakes.

The U.S. went into recession. Again.

" _How_ much for gas?! That's it! I'm selling my car!"

"You are _not_ selling your car."

Voyager I discovered a new moon.

"Jupiter, really? Doesn't it have enough already?"

Six men tried to rig the lottery.

"What a bunch of rubes!"

"Jack, you sound like Bugs Bunny when you say that."

* * *

"So, Annabel. I see your major is English with a minor in Philosophy."

Stuffy old office. Lined with books, stacked with papers, typewriter thunked in the corner.

"Yes, Professor."

She couldn't tell if she loved it or hated it.

"And what do you plan to do with your degree?"

It was cozy and all that.

"Well, I, uh . . ."

It was just full of questions she didn't know how to answer.

And her professor, the old fart, was just trying to help, she knew.

"An industrious young lady like you would do well as a secretary."

With his balding combover.

"Many different types of companies need secretaries."

And his down the nose glasses.

"Uh, I don't want to be a secretary."

Looking over the rims at her quizzically.

"Then what _do_ you want to be, Miss Walker?"

Waiting for a reasonable response.

 _I, well, I . . ._

"I don't know."

 _Shit_.

"Then why did you come to college, Miss Walker?"

No, she definitely hated it.

"I, uh, I have to go, Professor Himes."

* * *

And then because she didn't have enough obstacles in life.

"Hi, Ana."

"Hey."

There was an interested boy or two as well.

"I'm Alan. Nice to meet you."

"Mmm, you too."

But Annabel just couldn't bring herself to care yet.

* * *

The guy did though.

"Hey, Ana."

"Oh. Hey, Alan."

At least he tried.

"Nice day."

"Mmm."

"Want to go for a walk?"

"Oh. No, thanks."

"Oh. Okay. Um, want to go to the Caf'?"

"No."

"Uh, want to study together?"

"No."

"Hang out and talk?"

"No."

Baffled pause.

"Okay. Can I come by and see you later?"

"No."

"Can I call you?"

"No."

"Can I . . . write you a letter?"

"No."

"Ummm . . . okay. Well. Bye, I guess."

"Bye."

* * *

"Hey, who was that new guy you were talking to?"

"Oh. I don't know."

"He's cute!"

"I guess. I wasn't really paying attention."

"How could you _not_?"

"Just not interested, I guess."

* * *

She watched The Blues Brothers instead of Blue Lagoon.

Cannibal Holocaust instead of Xanadau.

And of course, . . .

"Holy crap! No way!"

. . . when she went home for summer break . . .

"He's his . . . are you seri- . . . _What_?!"

. . . she saw The Empire Strikes Back . . .

 _Hey, new arm, huh? Look at that, even looks real after they close up that little window thing._

 _Lucky bastard._

. . . with her father.

Afterward, walking arm in arm down the street, bellies still content with cheeseburgers, fries, and cokes, no new age tofu and fennel for the non-Colorado Walkers, Jimmy made a light observation.

"I hope they keep making these movies. I like this tradition of ours."

"Me too, Daddy."

* * *

She worked at the grocery store that summer and dutifully continued learning to sew from her . . .

"No matter your job, it always pays to be able to sew, Annabel."

"Did you know I read even soldiers in the military have to be able to sew out in the field?"

"You're kidding."

"It's true!"

. . . moms.

And all of a sudden, she would stop.

Concerned and appalled and feeling suddenly . . .

 _Are they getting older or is it just me?_

. . . very surreal.

 _What am I going to do if they-_

Wrapping them up sudden in a tight, not-quite-ready-to-panic hug . . .

"Annabel?"

"Darling?"

"I just love you guys. That's all."

"We love you too, darling."

"So much."

. . . before going on to her CPR class with Aunt Lucy.

* * *

She read The Stand, The Shining, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

She listened to Men at Work and Billy Joel and, of course . . .

". . . ashes to ashes, funk to funky . . ."

 _What the what?_

". . . we know Major Tom's a junkie . . ."

. . . her Bowie.

The Bowie with the Eyes.

The Special Eyes.

The Eyes that were like hers.

 _Still, I do miss Ziggy Stardust._

Who was evolving again.

Changing.

Even with those eyes.

 _Eyes._

 _I'm not thinking about eyes right now._

 _Or anything else real important._

 _Leave me alone. It's my damn summer._

 _I'll be twenty soon._

 _Twenty._

* * *

 **Secretary Annabel. I can't quite see it, can you?**

 **Little shout out to both realism and 9-5 there.**

 **And no, David Bowie did not have heterchromia. His eye differentiation was actually a result of a fistfight that went wrong.**

 **Crazy, huh?**

 **Well anyway, thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing the previous unpleasantness.**


	10. The Times

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Times

* * *

 _"Mama, I'm tired of leavin' through back doors."_

Jimmy Darling Walker put his key in the lock of Clark's Grocery.

Turned it.

And walked in through the _front_ door.

The air was still and quiet.

Waiting.

Waiting for customers.

Waiting for employees.

Waiting for the afternoon truck to arrive.

Waiting, at this moment, for Jimmy to turn on the lights.

Which he did.

"Well, hello, you beauty."

It wasn't the grandest store.

Or the most up to date.

But, through a series of unlikely events for a rogue carnie, it was his.

He had lived in this store.

He had nearly died in this store.

And so much, good and bad, had gone down in it that he felt like their history, to a certain extent, was written on its walls.

He ambled the aisles for several minutes, not yet opening time officially.

Business was down, no denying that, more people going to bigger, brighter stores with more variety.

The Piggly Wiggly.

The Sunflower.

But Jimmy and his darlings didn't need much.

And Clark's was all they had.

So Jimmy did his best by it.

So it would take care of them.

For as long as it could.

* * *

And of course, his store front neighbors were more than happy to be helpful . . .

"Jimmy, how are you?"

. . . and stop by for a chat every now and again.

"Doin' well enough for this heat, Earl. How are you?"

"Oh, fair to middlin'. You, uh, you see Sunday Times this week?"

Jimmy shrugged.

"The Times isn't really my thing."

The white coated man's ice blue eyes were sharp.

"Well, maybe it should be."

Then he handed Jimmy a folded paper.

* * *

"Mr. Dunn from the pharmacy brought me this today."

Jimmy maneuvered a New York Times Sunday Edition onto the kitchen counter where Bette and Dot were standing.

"The Sunday Edition? But it's Tuesday," Bette observed blankly as she and her conjoined twin picked it up.

"Just look," Jimmy insisted. "You'll see it."

And they did.

"Where The Hip Meet to Trip?"

"That's the one."

"What is this?"

"Just read."

So they did.

". . . hedonistic and laidback . . ."

"What's a fern bar?"

". . . dropouts drop in . . ."

"What does 'strung-out' mean?"

"Nude sunbathing?"

 _Oh dear, sister?_

 _Is it true?_

Then they spoke aloud to their grimfaced husband.

"I think we need to talk to Annabel."

"Yeah, I think so too."

* * *

Jimmy had gotten high plenty of times in his carnie youth. They'd had love-ins before they were love-ins.

Orgies technically.

So he knew the situation.

The fun. The abandon. The hedonism.

But this was his daughter.

His little girl.

His only child.

And he was concerned.

* * *

"Annabel? Can we talk to you for a minute?"

To say the least.

"Sure. What's up?"

Daddy Jimmy, with his hair greying at the temples, didn't say anything more.

Just slid the newspaper over with a wooden lobster claw.

Annabel picked it up.

Focused in on the print.

And the Walkers watched her eyes move from left to right as she read the article.

 _What is she thinking, Sister?_

 _I don't know, Bette. I can't even read your mind when you don't want me to._

A tiny smile started to form on Annabel's youthful face after the first few moments.

Accompanied shortly by an incredulous snort.

Followed by Annabel Margaret Walker sinking mirthfully into an empty kitchen chair, gales of laughter overtaking her.

Article abandoned on the table.

Tears being wiped from her mismatched eyes.

 _Sister_?

"Annabel?"

And they had to wait until she calmed before going any further in conversation.

Jimmy found himself reflexively smiling at his daughter.

Her joy always gave him joy.

Even when he didn't know what it was.

Finally, she spoke.

"Oh my god, who the hell _wrote_ that crap?!"

Relieved at her daughter's laughter-filled reaction, Bette allowed a sliver of hope to wiggle its way into her chest.

"So it's not like that?"

Annabel raised sardonic eyebrow.

"Not any more than every other college in America, I'm sure."

Dot bit her lip, trying to sound nonjudgmental.

"So you don't just sit around getting stoned all the time?"

Annabel facepalmed herself.

"Ma-Da, if I did, would I be getting the grades I am?"

 _She has a point, Sister. 3.8 GPA._

"So you've _never_ done it?"

Annabel shrugged again, sobering a little.

 _"Okay, so, check this out. In med class today, we found out that skin is just people crust."_

 _"What?"_

 _"Yeah, man. Stratum corneum. Latin, right? Translates to 'horny layer'."_

 _"What?!"_

 _"It's true, man. That's what the top layer of your skin is called!"_

 _"Oh my god, Evan, I am too stoned to be having this conversation right now-"_

 _"Eewww, I gotta go wash my horny lay- stop giggling - ooh, my head is falling -"_

 _"Oh my god, Denise, you are so high-"_

"Once or twice."

 _I knew it! It's a drug den of miscreants!_

 _Calm down, Sister. Give her a chance_.

"But I really don't like not being in complete control of myself."

Jimmy opened his mouth to speak but Annabel waved him off.

"Yes, I know what I did before, Daddy. Don't you think that taught me anything about not being stupid?"

Jimmy shut his mouth.

"Yes, a lot of people smoke pot and do different kinds of dope and pills and stuff. I'm even friends with some of them."

She reached out then, placing a hand atop Dot and Bette's folded ones and one on top of Jimmy's wrist where he could feel.

"But you don't have to worry about me," she insisted. "I'm taking care of myself. I'm not going to screw up my life, okay?"

 _What do you think, Sister?_

 _I think we have to trust our daughter, Bette._

And they nodded.

"Okay."

But Daddy Jimmy Darling wasn't quite done yet.

"We trust you, Annabel," he reassured his daughter gently. "And remember we will always be here for you, ok? You can always come home any time you need to, okay? Always."

She rose and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Daddy. I'll remember."

Then she kissed each of her mother's cheeks in turn.

"I love you, Moms."

And that, finally . . .

"Thank you, Annabel."

"We love you."

"You're the best."

She grinned.

"You're the best too."

. . . was that.

* * *

"Well, did you have it out with your daughter, Jimmy?"

"Well, not that it's any of your business, Earl, but we did talk, yeah."

"She switching schools and coming home like she ought to?"

"No. In fact, she'll be heading back out right after the fourth."

"Mmm. Mighty slippery slope out there for her. Kids get in all kinds of foul-ups away from home."

"I trust my daughter, Earl. And she knows she can come home anytime she wants or needs to."

"Well, suit yourself, Jimmy."

"I will, Earl, thanks. See you around."

* * *

 **Yep, that was a real article in June 1980. And boy, did it cause a stir. Annabel's response is based off of some of the Boulder citizens. I thought was interesting.**

 **And yes, stratum corneum. Look it up; it's real!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing.**

 **And I love you all unanimously agree that Annabel's not a secretary. ;)**

 **Thanks also to the silent readers of this story as well.**


	11. The Real World Awaits You

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Real World Awaits You

* * *

Annabel's time in Willard Hall had come to a close.

Single freshman and sophomores lived in residence halls, some dedicated only to their focuses of study.

Some just tossed together in masses.

Henceforth, Willard.

She'd had a lot of fun in her two years at Willard.

". . . to you, happy birthday, dear Annabel . . ."

". . . turkey. How about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Thanksgiving?"

"I can't study anymore. Let's go throw water balloons off the roof!"

Some not so good times.

"I can't believe Larry dumped me for that _tramp_! And now I'm out of cookie dough!"

"Oh my god, it's a dead mouse! Ewwww, we are never going to get that stink out here!"

"Everything is pink now! Even my white chenille sweater!"

And so really bad times.

". . . out on the floor. Could you help me move her, Carla?"

". . . pregnant! My parents are going to kill me!"

". . . ankle ice skating. Annabel, can you drive us to the emergency room?"

And now, it was time . . .

". . . room together?"

"Um, I think I'm going to get an apartment by myself, Jenny. But we can still go hiking and meet for coffee, okay?"

. . . for her to move out.

The university housing authority would even foot the bill on her rent.

Part if she went for fancy. All if she went for cheap.

And find a cheap one she did.

Small would have been gracious.

It was miniscule.

A two hundred and fifty square foot shoebox.

A hiccup of a kitchen which was basically just a tiny sink, an ancient green fridge, and a hot plate less than a hop and a jump from a doored . . .

 _My own private bathroom. Wow._

. . . bathroom her petite frame was in danger of getting stuck in.

Handful of steps away, a bed from the side of which she could almost reach out and touch the sofa.

It was already furnished so it smelled of other people.

There was barely enough room for all of her clothes and accoutrements.

Only one window.

 _Hey, there's the parking lot._

And a jack for a phone.

 _Beats the payphone on the corner._

All the same, she was nearly giddy . . .

 _I wonder if that dog's going to bark all night._

. . . with joy.

* * *

"You sure are a looker."

The landlord with the little potbelly was much older than her.

And married.

With kids.

And saying _this_ to her?

"You know what-"

She was shifting away, ready to go live in her car or a tree or something, just until winter.

Dinky little apartment be damned-

"No," he raised a hand vaguely. "I meant you're a very pretty girl and you need to keep yourself safe."

She paused, listening through the flames of rising disgust and hate.

"If you're going to be alone, you need to protect yourself."

 _Don't tell him you've got Mace. Don't tip him off._

"I've got Mace."

 _Stupid._

The man nodded.

"That's good. But when you're sleeping you need to stop them before they get in."

Annabel chewed her lip, alarmed.

"That happens here?"

He shook his head.

"Not so far in this neighborhood. But I'd rather be safe for you than sorry."

He paused and she found herself listening.

"You've got one good deadbolt here but I think it would do for you to have more."

She nodded.

"Okay."

He scratched his whiskery chin.

"I think three deadbolts-"

" _Three_?!"

"- should do the trick."

She stared as he continued.

"When you're home, keep one locked and two unlocked. That way if anyone tries to pick them, they're always locking two and can't get in."

 _Holy crap, my landlord's a genius._

And she managed to nod.

"Okay. Thank you."

* * *

So Annabel and her three deadbolts moved in to her very first apartment.

Since there was practically no floorspace, she decided to build _up_.

She got some pre-measured plywood boards and a basic toolkit on the cheap from a hardware store.

And built herself some shelving.

She wasn't very good at it.

But that was okay.

Because at the end of the long, hot, sweaty, frustrating day, Jimmy and Dot and Bette's darling daughter had shelves for her toiletries, dishes, vinyls, _and_ her books.

So long as it all didn't fall down on her head.

Showering in the claustrophobia-inducing bathroom renewed her spirit.

 _Alright_. _Daddy'll_ _be_ _proud_.

And she felt quite good about the whole thing after all.

* * *

Her first apartment was tiny and dingy with paint flecking white walls.

And all hers.

Nobody there but her.

Nobody.

At all.

Which was . . . weird.

At home, all she had to do was open her bedroom door . . .

"Hey, what's for supper?"

"Salmon croquettes."

"Okay. What _else_ is for supper?"

. . . and there they were.

At college, somebody was always up and doing something.

"Hey, Ana, want to go snow sledding up the hill?"

"I don't have a sled."

"Neither do I. We borrow the trash can lids."

"Oh my gosh, that's brilliant. Let's go!"

Now she had to go out and find people and things.

It was . . .

 _How the hell am I supposed to sleep in all this quiet now?_

. . . different.

* * *

So go out she did.

She took herself places in and around Boulder.

The Leaning Tree Museum of Western Art.

Celestial Seasonings Tea Factory.

Flagstaff Mountain.

And of course . . .

"What kind of job do you think you're going to try for, Annabel?"

"Well, obviously open heart surgeon, Daddy."

"Annabel!"

"Sorry, Mom. I mean, you know. Something part-time for now. Whatever there is."

. . . went looking for a job.

* * *

It didn't really go that well at first.

She went to the bank.

"Oh, pardon, but we only hire people with experience. Are you, are you feeling ok?"

"Yeah. My eyes always look like that."

"Oh."

And it didn't get any better.

"Oh, I'm sorry, we don't have any openings for waitresses right now, dear. Are you, are you feeling ok?"

"Yeah. My eyes always look like that."

"Oh."

She even went to a Piggly Wiggly.

 _I know grocery stores. Point me to your peas._

Nothing.

The last place she applied at was an area bookstore.

 _I like books. Let's talk about Slaughter House Five. I dare you._

But as was always the case. . .

"If you'd don't mind me saying so, Miss. Walker, I think know we both know your appearance can be somewhat off-putting."

Annabel gritted her teeth, then relaxed her jaw as she spoke.

"Well, I _do_ mind you saying so," she replied primly. "I can't help the way I look. And at least I'm trying to work instead of be some shiftless bum!"

The manager raising his hands in what he probably thought was a soothing motion but really just infuriated her more.

"Please don't cause a scene, Miss Walker, I'm just not sure-"

"That I'm good enough for your stupid store?" Annabel shot back. "Well, let me assure you, Mr. Donnell, it's the other way around! _I'm_ too good for _it_!"

And then with the manager gawking and stammering in righteous indignation, Annabel Margaret Walker drew herself up, swiftly collected her things, and exited the premises without looking back.

* * *

She pulled calmly out of the parking lot, face expressionless, just in case the bastard (or anyone else on the entire planet Earth) was watching.

Made a left turn and drove down the road until she came to an empty overlook.

Pulled over.

Shut off the car.

And burst into tears.

She bawled like a baby; she couldn't help it.

Head pressed against the steering wheel, hands clamped around the worn leather like a vice.

Hating the sound of her own pathetic, whiny voice.

Hating the fact that she was a freak, an abhorrent of nature.

Hating the world and everything in it.

 _I wish I could just die, why am I such a freak, why-_

A knocking on the car window beside her head startled her and Annabel flinched away from the noise.

It was a little old lady, swathed in a shapeless, blue shift.

She looked like she had been about to smile.

"Are you-"

Until she had come face to face with the freakazoid eyes.

Annabel watched her falter, watched the wrinkled old face transition from concern to confusion to a vague loathing the old bat probably thought she had was hiding like a pro.

Then the old lady started over.

"Are you okay? Is something wrong with your eyes?"

 _Goddammit!_

"No!" Annabel screeched in dispair. "Nothing's wrong with them! That's just how they _look_!"

Then she twisted the key so hard, she almost blew the engine.

Slamming the car through all its gears.

And peeling rubber to get the hell out of Dodge.

* * *

 **Bit of a conundrum here with the traditional jobs, isn't there, mmm.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing, you're so sweet!**

 **Thanks also to Mickey1812 for so graciously adding your support to this story! :)**


	12. Bowie, Huh

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Bowie, Huh

* * *

The University of Colorado's campus was huge and sprawling.

Lots of buildings and grassy knolls.

Lots of benches and paths and study areas.

Non-study areas too.

Lots of everything.

Including people.

And action.

Fraternities and sororities luring in new applicants.

 _Oh god no. Plus, can you imagine what'd they say about my eyes?_

Activists organizing mini-rallies.

 _Why are you all so obsessed with underwear? I can be independent and freethinking_ and _wear a bra. Jeez._

All kinds of people connecting along all kinds of interest and focus agendas.

Tables and booths and groups and flyers and posters and . . .

". . . 88.5, Colorado's first non for profit radio station . . ."

. . . and sometimes, just sometimes . . .

". . . run by the students, for everyone . . ."

. . . something life changing happening too.

* * *

She didn't really mean to interact at that point.

It really was accidental.

She was tired, more than a little despondent . . .

 _Guess I could work as a mortician's assistant. Dead people don't care what your eyes look like._

 _Ugh._

. . . and really wondering if her other option was moving home and working in her dad's grocery store for the rest of her life.

 _Not the worst idea. So why do I want to cry?_

The whole thing made her irritable and ill.

"Spinnin' tunes, gettin' your voice out there . . ."

 _Voice, huh?_

Annabel edged closer.

"Hey, man."

"Hey."

He was nondescript. White T-shirt. Late seventies blond hair and big sunglasses.

Twenties, somewhere.

With his mustache and old bellbottomed jeans.

Boots and a cap.

Just like everybody e-

"So what do you groove?"

Her response was immediate.

"Bowie."

He grinned then continued to look at her.

It was okay. Her shades were on. She was safe.

"I'm Dave. You like Bowie?"

She shrugged.

"Ana. Is there anyone who doesn't?"

"Facists."

She laughed.

"Well, you're not wrong."

Dave seemed amused and for once, Annabel didn't feel threatened.

Yet.

"What about it then? Radio callin' to you?"

"As long as they'll leave my bra alone."

The guy crossed his arms, grinning.

"Not a women's lib then?"

Annabel shrugged.

"I don't mind women's lib. I just don't want anyone trapping me in a box to fit themselves."

An impressed nod.

"Boxes are boxes."

She nodded and tossed it back.

"And foxes . . ."

 _What am I doing?_

". . . are foxes. What else you want to rhyme?"

A pleased expression from the man on the other side of the flyer-laden table.

"Man, you got a voice like Elizabeth Taylor."

 _Who the what now?_

"But better."

 _Is this a come on? Are you kidding?_

"Hey, do me a solid and say 'Welcome to the Easy Grooves Night Shift'."

 _Am I on Candid Camera?_

"Welcome to the Easy Grooves Night Shift."

 _Why is he smiling?_

"Fantastic. Have you ever considered lending your voice to the radio?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I think you could train to be a dj. Might take a couple of months, depending on how much time you're willing to spend following the other djs around and learning from them."

Annabel stared at him.

Listening to music.

Chatting up callers.

And nobody could see her eyes.

"Really?"

The guy nodded, then huffed.

"I won't lie. The pay's abysmal; you'll be eating franks and beans forever on that salary but it's worth it."

Annabel goggled at him.

"Who _cares_?! Sign me up!"

* * *

The radio station was tiny and cramped.

". . . home of the best talk and music in Boulder."

A couple of offices complete with overloaded desks and buried phones and secondhand chairs.

". . . manager and basically anyone who needs to use it . . ."

Corkboards with flyers, schedules, announcements, and other paper scraps.

A small set of lockers for employee valuables.

". . . honor system . . ."

Kitchenette complete with fridge, sink, microwave, and coffeemaker.

". . . swill so bring some creamer . . ."

Music posters covered the most unsightly marks on the walls.

". . . offended by Blondie and ABBA, are you?"

There were a couple of sprung plaid couches flanking a scratched up coffee table.

Still and all-

 _Oh my god, this is so cool!_

But nothing, _nothing_ , could prepare her for the it.

Such a little space to hold so much . . .

". . . magic happens."

The soundbooth.

 _Holy crap._

* * *

She would never, she would _never_ able to learn everything she needed to know to run that thing.

It was all too much.

But maybe, maybe it wasn't.

The dj at the currently at the mic was talking . . .

". . . unemployment rate, the American people need . . ."

. . . politics, it being that slot in the day, Annabel guessed . . .

". . . instead of looking the other way . . ."

. . . was a woman.

A _woman_.

A woman with shelves and shelves of records behind her.

No doubt categorized and alphabetized and waiting, just waiting for some lucky soul to pick them out, play them, for all the world to-

The woman now who caught sight of them and waved, continuing on now into an ad . . .

". . . -tone suntanning lotion. Now complete with aloe and vitamin E. Pick yours up today and start working on that golden glow. Coppertone."

. . . for something.

And Annabel . . . was . . . in . . . _heaven_.

 _Oh man, I'm gonna play The Police and The Ramones and Genesis-_

"So I figure you'll start with the night shift, part time. It's easy listening seventies. The guy who runs it now wants to switch to days in a month or two."

 _Oh._

 _Okay. Kitchen music._

 _Sure._

 _I can do that._

 _I can totally do that._

It was overwhelming and alien and too much.

And absolutely . . .

 _I am so happy right now._

. . . beautiful.

* * *

Three hours. Three glorious hours.

To start.

When she started.

When she had learned and practiced and been tutored and-

Working up to four.

Working up to five.

 _Working up to, oh man, anything's possible, isn't it?_

"So," the guy said, turning to her. "Whaddya say?"

Annabel nodded emphatically.

"Sure! When can I get an interview?"

The guy grinned again.

"I'm the head of this radio station. The Elizabeth Taylor conversation _was_ the interview."

 _Shut. Up._

 _Still . . ._

"There's, uh, there's one more thing. I wouldn't want to lie to you."

Her Almost Employer of the Greatest Job Ever stopped and eyed her.

Annabel took a stabilizing breath.

And took off her sunglasses.

The moment held.

Then Dave the Radio Man grinned.

"So, Bowie, huh?"

* * *

 ***wipes brow***

 **Whew, I am SO happy to have so relief here, aren't you?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for having patience through all that previous whining.**

 **Although you do have to admit, it was realistic.**


	13. The First and The Last

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The First and The Last

* * *

 _Oh god._

She'd known her first time would be a big deal.

 _Oh Jesus._

Her never having done it before.

 _Oh man._

Being a virgin, so to speak.

 _This is bad._

But nobody could have told her how bad.

 _This is so very bad._

If not for Dave, she never would have recovered.

 _This is worse than bad._

At least there wasn't a _physical_ crowd to bear witness to her catastrophic . . .

 _I am so getting fired._

. . . radio disaster.

 _Oh crap._

It had taken three straight months of practically living at the radio station.

Running errands and organizing papers and files and desks only to have them fall into disarray by her next visit.

Making coffee and sleeping on the couch.

And dogging, shadowing, _stalking_ every person with experience and intelligence on the matter she could find.

And a month of practice and little minis after that.

She had missed Texas hurricanes and murdered actresses.

Democratic National Conventions and Robert Redford being lauded as an up-and-coming new director.

The advent of shoulderpads and velour jogging suits.

Fake news and real news and all the little intricacies in life . . .

"Happy twentieth birthday, darling!"

"We tried to call you yesterday but we couldn't get through to you."

"Sorry. I was busy."

"That's alright. Did you get the care package we sent you?"

"Yes. Thank you for the socks."

"How's the radio job?"

"Amazing! Last night-"

She still hadn't decided whether she wanted to be Angel Kelly or Angel Sabrina.

. . . and now she _finally_ had a shot . . .

 _Shit shit shit shit-_

. . . and she had screwed it up.

She had been happily pattering away for five full minutes.

". . . coffee and No-Doz, baby, so we can groove together all night long . . ."

Songs playing before that.

And an ad . . .

" - mel brand cigarettes. Where a man belongs."

. . . before that.

And she had known it was going _great_.

Well . . . maybe not _great_.

But fine, definitely, at least fine.

Until the Dave the Radio Man had strode through the door as she was chattering on about the upcoming 'doll of a duo' . . .

"What are you doing?"

. . . and freaked her out.

 _They can hear you! I'm on air!_

But she . . .

"No, Ana, you're not."

. . . was . . .

 _What?_

. . . not.

 ** _What?!_**

Dave had pointed to the on air sign above the door and Annabel's heart had sunk.

 _You've got to be kidding me._

"You've broadcasting dead space for thirty minutes."

 _Oh shit._

* * *

He had shooed her off the mic, flipping switches along the way.

"Hey, Night Shift Listeners, no, you haven't gone deaf just a little station sitch that's all worked out now. Groove on with a little blast from the past we call 'Midnight Train to Georgia'."

". . . than live without him in mine . . ."

And then he spun as Annabel stood in shame in the corner.

* * *

He didn't speak.

Didn't point to the door.

Didn't glare or roll his eyes.

Or acknowledge her presence at all for about fifteen minutes.

And she was wondering . . .

 _I guess I should go. I blew my shot._

. . . if she should just scoot on out and leave.

 _But my bag is way over there next to him._

And she was hypnotizing herself with watching him work the hardware.

 _So stupid, of course I can do this. I practiced. I know this. Look at that. Argh._

And then finally, just as she was miserably scheming to get her bag . . .

 _It's got my three deadbolt apartment keys in it-_

. . . he suddenly turned toward her.

"Alright, Ana Angel, you ready for another try?"

She gulped down a sigh of relief and summoned a calm facade.

"Actually, it's Ana _Darling_."

He nodded, one side of his mouth pulling up.

"Yes, it is."

He rose, gesturing a welcome hand toward what was apparently her seat once more . . .

"Call me if you need anything, okay?"

She nodded.

"Okay."

"And don't cut the feed again."

She managed a confident smile.

"You got it."

He started to head out the door then.

"Dave?"

He turned back.

"Thank you."

He smiled fully then, to Ananabel's relief.

Nodded.

And left.

"Okay, well, let's see what we've got for all you patient people out there in Radioland, huh?"

 _Don't cut the feed, don't cut the feed, don't cut the feed . . ._

". . . seasons in the sun . . ."

* * *

And she didn't.

Not that night.

Or the next night.

Or the next night.

* * *

"Hey, you're listening to the Easy Grooves Nightshift. I'm your host, Ana Darling."

It was getting better. Easier.

Easier than trying to nail down who shot J.R. anyway.

She had adjusted to staying up half the night, sleeping in later, and still managing to make it in to class with most of her brain intact.

"Every language has a construction in which two negatives make a positive, but in English there is no case where two positives make a negative."

 _Yeah, right._

 _Hee hee._

 _Good lord, I'm tired._

Mostly.

But she was getting there.

And she loved it.

The radiostation at night was a magical thing.

Minimal lighting, minimal staff.

Mostly just her and the low lights she needed.

The stillness.

The tunes.

The _magic_.

 _I could do this forever._

And she really, really could.

* * *

Then John Lennon died.

Correction.

John Lennon was _murdered_.

Shot.

Repeatedly.

Right in front of his apartment building.

Gunned down.

All for some sick, twisted obsession that nobody could quite figure out.

And the whole world mourned.

* * *

"Play him tonight," Dave instructed her solemnly. "Play him as much as you want, as much as they want tonight. Tonight's his night, okay? Play him all night."

Annabel nodded.

"You got it, boss."

And the turntable . . .

". . . some day you'll join us and the world will be as one. . ."

. . . turned.

* * *

 **Thanks to Pinterest for the English major joke.**

 **Rest in peace, John Lennon, thirty-eight years ago today. And everyone else who has suffered from violence.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing!**

 **I know this job selection threw everyone for a loop, but i really think it's a safe place for Annabel to start regaining some of her old confidence, you know?**

 **Switching over to Saturday posts for a while. :)**


	14. Jingle Bells, Something Smells

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Jingle Bells, Something Smells

* * *

Annabel Margaret Walker was a grown woman now.

Fully twenty years old.

With her own shoebox apartment.

And her own job, part time as it was.

And she was nearly three-fourths of the way through college.

So she was set, she was good to go.

Evenso, she was also . . .

"I'll see you guys soon!"

"Okay, love you, darling!"

. . . still heading home for Christmas.

 _A whole week!_

 _Yes, seven entire days!_

 _. . ._

 _Seems shorter than before._

 _She wants to get back to her radio station, I think._

 _And her Colorado._

 _Focus on the positives, Bette._

* * *

Annabel had shown them Instamatics of her . . .

"Is that the _whole_ kitchen?"

"Yeah. I don't need much."

"It looks . . . cozy."

 _Actually, the idea is rather exciting. Her own place?_

 _In Colorado._

 _Hush. Don't say it out loud._

 _I didn't._

. . . humble abode.

Daddy Jimmy had granted easy praise . . .

"Well, I'm not surprised in the least bit. Our Annabel can do anything she puts her mind to."

"Well, someone once told me sometimes you just gotta figure it out and do the best you can."

"Now I wonder who that could have been."

. . . and a fatherly dimpled wink at her fledging carpentry efforts.

And, after the man of the house had gone outside to fiddle with the lights some more, the women of the house had invited Annabel into the kitchen.

* * *

"Wednesday night we're having dinner with the Clarks."

 _Cool._

"Patty and her brood will be there of course. She has four kids, you know. They live in town."

 _Cool._

"George will be there too."

 _Okay then._

"He got divorced last year, poor guy. Wife decided she didn't want to be married anymore."

 _Really? I mean, he's not so bad. Looks like a thirty-year old, clean cut version of that guy from the Moody Blues._

"So sad. He deserved better."

 _Yeah, George was a good guy. Even when he pulled my braids._

"Anyway, we thought you might like to catch up."

Annabel, absently munching away on a delicious iced sugar cookie, nodded amicably.

 _Sure, whatever. Wait-_

"Why would I like to talk with George?"

Her mothers' identical faces were carefully nondescript.

"Oh, no reason. Just old friends and all."

Annabel raised an eyebrow.

"Moms, are you trying to set me up with George Clark?"

Ma-Ba shrugged as Ma-Da tilted her head the opposite way from her sister.

 _They look like they're trying to split apart when they do that._

"No. Not necessarily," Ma-Ba replied carefully.

"Although it wouldn't be the worst thing," Ma-Da clarified. "He already knows our family and you so that wouldn't be a point of worry for you."

Annabel stared at them, completely sideswiped.

"What does he say?"

Her mothers averted their eyes, reaching as one for the green bean casserole dish.

"Well, we haven't really talked to him yet."

"We just thought if you would like to sit together at dinner, we could arrange it."

 _Arrange it._

 _Humph._

Then again . . .

 _He already knows about my eyes._

 _And my family._

 _It might be . . . safe._

Annabel chewed the cookie for a moment more.

"Okay," she finally said. "I'll sit with him."

And got dressed for dinner.

* * *

The Clark house was brimming with people.

The patriarch and matriarch of the family.

Both with greying hair and pleasant expressions.

"Oh, Annabel, look how you've grown!"

"How's that mountain life, Annabel?"

"Mountainy."

Patty, pleasantly rounded now that she was blessed with a passel . . .

"Jessi, give that back to your brother! Henry, don't you pull Becca's braids like that! Mom, where's the baby?"

"Right here in my arms, dear. Why don't you have some more ambrosia salad?"

. . . of poshly dressed, slightly feral children.

Her husband, a tall, somewhat bewildered man . . .

". . . mosquito netting just last week. Henry tried to eat it."

. . . outnumbered in his own house.

And of course, the Walker family friends plopped right in the middle of it . . .

 _Oh lord, Bette, can you imagine this many Annabels?_

 _No, Sister dear, I cannot._

. . . all.

"Hey, Jimmy, how's the store?"

"Still selling the groceries, Tom. How's the firm?"

* * *

And stick her next to George they did.

"Hi, Annabel."

"Hey, George."

* * *

 _Oh, Sister._

 _They're talking._

 _Yes._

 _Annabel's hair looks so pretty. She looks a little like Barbara Mandrell when she styles it like that._

 _Yes. And that lovely Peter Pan collar looks so sweet on her._

 _Even if the dress is a little too short for my taste._

 _Why doesn't she take that outfit to college? It's just precious._

 _Yes, it - oh!_

 _He's passing her the breadbasket!_

 _Yes, he is!_

 _She's smiling!_

 _Yes, she is!_

* * *

 _Why are my wives staring at Annabel and George like they're watching one of those daytime soap operas?_

 _Boy, this ham is good. I wonder if anyone would notice if I just stab it with a hook?_

 _Boy, Patty's sure churned out the kids. Seems like a happy family. I wonder what would have have happened if we'd had more children._

 _One of them probably would have the Famous Toledo Lobster Clan claws._

 _Boy, that would have been a whole other set of-_

 _Wait, why is my daughter sitting with George Clark?!_

* * *

"It's kinda loud in here."

 _I think it may be your sister's horde of monk- children._

"Would you like to go out on the back deck where it's quieter?"

Annabel nodded.

"Sure."

He did not reach out and take her hand as they silently escaped the tinsel tinged gathering together.

And she did not lament it.

Out on the deck, the Florida breeze was just cooling enough to lend them a breath.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Finally, George said:

"Whew."

Annabel nodded in agreement.

"Yeah."

The moon was bright enough to compete with the mutlicolored holiday lights below it.

"So," George began.

Then he grinned with embarrassment.

 _So?_

 _Are you going to tell me how beautiful I look in the moonlight then?_

 _'Cause I hear that's a line._

"I get the feeling our mothers are playing matchmaker."

 _Slam dunk for you, my friend._

"Yeah, they weren't too subtle about staring at us during supper."

"I felt like a lobster in a tank."

"Ha."

Quiet.

"What do you think then?"

Annabel shrugged.

"I don't know. You're George. You've always been . . . George."

Annabel paused then continued on.

"I mean, it's nice that I don't have to hide my eyes or my family around you."

Hoping she wasn't sounding rude or dismissive.

"I don't know. I guess I never really thought it."

Conversational lull.

Finally . . .

"Yeah. It's weird. Like cousins or something."

She nodded.

He understands.

"After Denise and I called it quits, I was kind of lost. It was rough."

Annabel felt bad.

Was she really writing off this guy so easily just because he was George?

"But now . . . I've got my own apartment. I've got a routine."

At the mere mention of 'apartment', Annabel felt a swell of homesickness for hers.

"I'm not . . . I'm not happy yet," he was saying, seeming without self pity or martyrdom. "I've got a plant. And a fish."

 _Already too much responsibility for me, buddy._

"I'm just not sure if I'm ready for more yet."

She felt a wash of relief.

 _Are you pre-dumping me before Christmas?_

 _Oh, the horror._

"I'm sorry if that seems rude or dismissive."

 _Oh, that's just what I was thinking about-_

"No," Annabel replied quietly. I was just thinking the same thing."

George side-eyed her.

"Really?"

Annabel grinned.

"Basically."

Then he turned and looked back at the bright house lights and all the social holiday people therein.

"Mother will kill me if I get drunk."

 _Probably not._

"Do you want to sneak off and go to a movie?"

Annabel shrugged.

"Sure."

* * *

"Flash! I love you but we only have fourteen hours to save the Earth!"

 _Well, man, you better get a move on then._

* * *

"Annabel! George! Where have you two been? We've been waiting for you."

"Well, not long."

 _Don't her off the hook, Sister._

"Obviously we ran right off to Vegas and got married. Your grand scheme worked."

"Annabel Margaret Walker!"

"Sorry."

* * *

". . . evening. Thank you so much."

"We enjoyed having you."

"Thanks for the movie, George. It was fun."

He smiled a little.

"Yeah, it was. Thanks for coming with me."

The following hug was awkward but not terribly so.

Just . . . cousins.

Who had been set up on a date.

By their well-meaning mothers.

"I hope you can be happy, George. You're a good guy."

"Thanks, Annabel. You too."

He shuffled.

"Well, you know-"

Annabel nodded.

"Yeah, I know."

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Goodnight, Annabel. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, George. Goodnight."

* * *

 _Well, that didn't work._

 _No._

 _I'm not sure why._

 _I guess they just weren't right for each other._

 _They ran off to a movie without telling anyone._

 _Yes, they did. What-_

". . . was that about? Why was Annabel running around with George Clark all night?!"

 _Oh dear._

* * *

She kinda felt sorry for her moms.

They just wanted her happy with a guy.

And she would be.

Eventually.

She hoped.

One day.

Maybe.

Just not with George Louis Clark.

Not during Christmas.

And not . . .

"Cherry?"

"Thanks."

. . . over Christmas ham.

 _Love Story._

 _Or not._

 _Whatever_.

And that was the end of Annabel's 1980.

* * *

 **So a little not-bad interaction with the opposite sex there.**

 **I thought it might be something moms might pull.**

 **Especially at Christmas. ;)**

 **Anyway, special thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing.**


	15. Ana Darling

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Ana Darling

* * *

By February of 1981, the world seemed like it might be looking up a little.

Yes, because that actor guy Reagan got elected president . . .

 _Sure, you know. Whatever._

. . . and the Iran Hostage Crisis finally ended after four hundred forty-four days . . .

 _Damn, man. It's about time._

But also because . . .

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling."

. . . Annabel Margaret Walker was having the time of her life finally finding her disc jockey groove.

"What can I spin you for?"

People called in with all sorts of song requests.

"Can you play 'Mother and Child Reunion'?"

"Will you play 'Baby, I'ma Want You'?"

"I wanna hear 'Sister Golden Hair'!"

People sending out love songs. People sending out party songs. People sending out pot songs, and anthem songs, and songs hearkening back to a simpler, happier place in time.

". . . gypsies, tramps, and thieves! We hear it from the people of the town-"

Or not.

And, whether or not the song was one of her favs, she always responded the same way.

"You got it, man. Comin' in ten."

Sometimes they thanked her.

Sometimes they just hung up.

And sometimes . . .

"Ooh, baby, you sound like Afternoon Delight. Wanna hook up sometime?"

To which she inevitably responded with . . .

"Sorry, sugar, this Iron Maiden's clinched up tight. Stay groovy."

And she'd disconnect.

And she never really thought of them after that.

Men. Women. Teenagers.

Drunken frat partiers.

Once she swore it was a little kid asking to hear 'The Lions Sleeps Tonight'.

She greeted.

She pattered.

She spun.

She moved on.

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

At first, he started out the same way.

"Um, hi."

"Hi."

"Uh, would you play 'Just Remember I Love You' by Firefall?"

Annabel jotted the info shorthand easy on her pad below the marked-out requests she'd already spun that night.

"Sure thing. Any special person?"

His voice sounded so nervous. Most of the romantics did.

"Yeah, uh, Judy. From, uh, Pat."

Annabel nodded into the handset.

"You got it, man. Comin' in ten."

And that was that.

She relayed the info . . .

"This one's going out to Judy from Pat. Listen up, honey, it's a sweet one."

. . . and played the song.

". . . when it all goes crazy and the thrill is gone . . ."

 _Good grief, that's such a sweet, sad song._

And as she was listening, Annabel got impulsive.

It didn't take long to find and she had it ready before the song was over.

So after some patter and a quick spot ad, she brought it back to the tunes.

"You know I just can't resist a good spin, so this one goes out to our Judy/Pat duo. Good luck, guys."

". . . Hey, Jude . . . don't make it bad. Take a sad song . . ."

 _Go get her, Pat._

And then, she really didn't think anymore about them.

* * *

Until the next night.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hey, would you play 'Sweet Caroline'?

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Rhinestone Cowboy'!"

"Hey, do you got 'Games People Play'?"

"You got it, man. Comin' in ten."

Not many requests as usual.

But enough to have a little fun.

"This one goes out to the party in 3D. Everybody make sure you take the lampshades off your heads before you leave."

" . . . to the world! All the boys and girls! Enjoy to the fishes in the deep blue sea . . ."

And then . . .

"Uh, hi."

"Hi."

"Would you, um, play 'I'll Be Around' by The Spinners?"

"Sure thing. Any special person?"

"Yeah. Uh, Judy. From Pat."

Repeat callers were a thing. If they were one of the nice ones, she usually tried to talk them up a little.

Be acceptably friendly.

"Oh hey, Pat, I remember you," she surreshed. "How's Judy?"

His voice came back a little flat.

"Uh, I don't really know."

 _Oh_.

"Well, let me spin this tune for you, and we'll see if we can rouse her, alright?"

"Okay. Thanks."

"No problem, man."

She spun.

And moved on.

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, can you play 'Your Mama Don't Dance'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Go Away Little Girl."

"Hey, do you got 'Nobody Does It Better'?"

"You got, man. Comin' in, ten."

And in the middle of it all . . .

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Uh, would you 'Can't Smile Without You' by Barry Manilow?"

She had a hinting suspicion.

"Pat?"

There was a pause and she thought he'd hung up.

"Yeah."

 _Mmm. Careful here._

"Any word from Judy, Pat?"

Another pause.

Then, so quiet, she could barely hear it, he answered.

"No."

 _Hmmm_.

"Okay, I'll spin this for you, Pat."

His voice came relieved.

"Okay. Thanks."

And as it spun she thought about.

Brow furrowed. Chewing her lip.

 _Hmmm . . ._

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, can you play 'The Candy Man'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'I Go Crazy'."

"Hey, do you got 'Love Train'?"

"You got, man. Comin' in, ten."

And, like new clockwork . . .

"Hi."

"Hi."

 _Oh good grief, are you yanking my chain here, Pat?_

 _Don't you request some whiny little love story song to some woman that obviously wants nothing to do with-_

"I'd like to request a song please."

But his voice was different this time.

"Alright, lay it on me."

Harder. More . . .

"I'd like to request 'Steppin' Stone' by The Monkees."

. . . angry.

 _Oh. Well, that's different._

And she took a breath.

Speaking softer now. Dropping the patter.

"Judy?"

"Yeah."

And she thought about it.

"Okay, Pat. I'll play the song. But you gotta do something for me."

Silence. And she wondered if he was gone.

But he wasn't.

"What?"

Not entirely unkind.

So she dropped her voice gentler. Softer.

"Stay on the line for me, will ya? I want to talk to you."

Another pause.

 _This guy is great at pauses. World class._

Finally . . .

"Okay."

She nodded into the handset.

"Okay. Thank you, Patrick."

And she spun.

* * *

"Patrick?"

He didn't respond immediately but, this being their fourth spin, she felt she was getting to know him a little. Maybe.

"Hey."

"Are you okay?"

Pause.

"No, not really."

 _Duh_.

"Judy?"

Pause.

"Yeah."

 _Shocker_.

"Still can't get her to make contact?"

Pause.

"No. She did."

Okay.

"And?"

Pause.

 _This guy would be great at government secrets. Jeez._

"She said to stop sending out songs to her. Said it was embarrassing. Said she didn't want to have anything to do with me anymore."

 _Damn. That was harsh._

"Well, I hate to say this but I don't think she wants you to send out any more songs, Patrick. It sounds like she wants you to leave her alone."

He didn't respond. And she was relieved to be stuck away at the radio instead of face to face if he was one of those guys that you didn't want to get angry.

 _I don't know this guy. He's probably an obsessive creep and she's right to be pushing him away._

 _Still . . ._

"Yeah, I know."

He sounded so pitiful again, so defeated. All the fight gone out of him.

"How long did you guys date?"

Pause.

"Three months."

And she just could not shut her mouth.

"Does she know that?"

Or maybe she chose not to.

Cringeworthy, yes but . . .

"Because you're sounding a little stalkery, Patrick."

Pause.

And she thought he had hung up.

Or maybe was loading a gun.

Finally . . .

"Yeah, she knew."

Okay.

"Patrick?"

He didn't say anything. So she did.

"I think you need to let her go. Otherwise, there might be restraining order in your future."

Knowing there was a pause coming up, she took it and ran again.

"Which would be unfortunate considering your excellent taste in midnight music."

The inevitable pause.

Then . . .

"Okay."

And because Annabel wasn't totally heartless, she kept talking.

"And call back tomorrow night so I can spin you another track."

She dropped the newly resurrected on-air persona just as fast as she had picked it up.

"Okay? So I know you're alright."

Patrick's Pause.

Then . . .

"Okay."

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, can you play 'Guitar Man'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Celicia'!"

"Hey, do you got 'Photograph' by Ringo Starr?"

"You got, man. Comin' in, ten."

He did not call back the next night.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, can you play 'Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Come Sail Away'!"

"Hey, do you got 'Leaving on a Jet Plane'?"

"You got, man. Comin' in, ten."

Or the next.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, can you play 'Chewy Chewy'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Hello, Darlin'."

"Hey, do you got 'Proud Mary'?"

"You got, man. Comin' in, ten."

Or next.

She didn't honestly know whether to be worried or relieved.

And she hoped neither of them was dead.

* * *

Finally, on the third . . .

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, can you play 'Heard It in a Love Song'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Bridge Over Troubled Water'."

"Hey, do you got 'ABC'?"

"You got, man. Comin' in, ten."

. . . night, she took matters into her own vinyls.

"Hey, out there, Night Shift People. This one goes out to Patrick from Ana Darling. Hope you're okay out there."

" . . . Everybody plays the fool sometime . . . there's no exception to the rule . . ."

And she waited.

And spun on.

* * *

He did not respond; did not call in.

And she said it was fine, it was normal.

Guy had a life.

A job.

Hell, he was probably asleep and not even listening.

Still . . .

"Sendin' up a flare for you tonight, Patrick. Don't be a stranger."

". . . let the sun go down on me . . . although I search myself . . ."

* * *

"Okay, Patrick, three's the magic spin, darlin'. This one's for you."

". . . everything, turn, turn, turn. There is a season, turn, turn, turn . . ."

And she waited.

* * *

An hour later . . .

"Hi, Ana. It's-"

"Patrick! So good to hear your voice."

"Really?"

She grinned.

"Yeah, really. You seemed pretty out of sorts last night we spoke. I was worried something had happened to you."

Pause.

"No. I'm still here."

She grinned.

"I'm glad."

Pause.

 _And now we're back to this._

"Would you like to hear a song?" She offered.

Pause.

"Um, yeah. I guess."

Pause.

Then . . .

"Um, would you play 'Doctor My Eyes' by Jackson Browne?"

That sounded about right.

"You got it. Comin' in ten. And, Patrick?"

Pause.

"Yeah?"

Patter drop.

"Thanks for callin' in. I was worried about you."

Pause.

"You're welcome."

Pause.

"Thank you for caring."

She smiled.

"You're welcome, Patrick. Goodnight."

Pause.

"Goodnight."

* * *

 **I don't know about you but this job just seems like so much fun and so therapeutic for Annabel. And us! I hope you like it.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing! Let's de-angst, shall we? ;)**

 **Thanks also** **toTatsuAFK and bribri1300 for adding your support to this story as well! Yay!**


	16. On the Road to Pueblo

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

On the Road to Pueblo

* * *

The radio dj life wasn't all sparkling rainbows and unicorn butts.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin your for?"

"Hey, would you play 'It's So Easy'?"

Breathless, girlish giggle.

 _Oh boy._

"Sure, honey. Any special person?"

Second tittering giggle.

"Yes!"

 _Anddd?_

"Gary."

Annabel froze.

There _had_ to be more than one Gary in the world.

It was inevitable.

"Oh yeah?"

Careful tone.

"What's his last name?"

She never asked before, never worried about it.

Radio djs were more first name kinda people. Pseudonyms even satisfied them.

"Marsh."

 _Bastard._

"Oh. Huh. Say, does he have a really awesome car?"

Excited giggle.

"Oh, yeah! It's gorgeous! His dad got it for him to go to college, isn't that cool?!"

 _Super cool._

 _Ugh._

 _Stay out of it, stay out of it, stay out of it._

"So will you play it?"

 _Stay. Out. Of. It._

 _But what if there was someone who could have warned me and didn't?_

"You guys been dating long?"

Enthusiasm scaling to new heights.

"No, actually Friday's our first date! We're going to a movie!"

 _Oh Jesus._

"And a French restaurant before!"

 _Oh god._

"What's your name, sweetie?"

Enthusiastic reply.

"Sherry! You know, like 'Sherry Baby'? I was named after the song."

 _Okay. Here we go._

Patter drop.

"Ok. Sherry, honey. You might want to be careful around this guy."

Confused pause.

"Why? He's so handsome, he's so charming. He even does his own laundry, can you believe it?! We met at the laundry mat!"

 _I'm starting to get suspicious about that laundry bit now._

 _But, like, seriously, who would use laundry as a pickup?_

"If he's paying for the movie and food, he's going to expect something in return, Sherry. And he's real aggressive about it."

A crystal clear turn of attitude, now tinged with anger.

"Well, that's really rude, you don't even know the guy!"

 _Dammit, are all girls this dumb?!_

"Sherry, I'm not trying to make you mad, but this guy is bad news on that front, okay? You need to stay away from him."

Complete stubborn denial.

"And how do _you_ know?! You're just a _radio_ dj!"

Annabel started to say _because he was my first non gay date_.

But the caller was gone.

And the line was empty.

 _Shit. She's going to get herself raped._

* * *

She worried over the next couple of days as Friday edged ever closer and ever closer.

The girl, the girl.

She was stepping into male dominated territory.

 _Gary_ dominated territory.

Where he thought he was entitled to whatever he wanted.

Namely women.

And their . . . virtue?

 _How old am I again?_

Anyway, she worried.

* * *

". . . demand to speak to the night dj!"

Shouting, there was definite, sudden shouting.

Annabel, finishing up in the bathroom, heard it through the walls.

And her heart started hammering.

 _What the hell?_

Something whispered it was about her.

Her and Sherry and Gary.

But she opened the bathroom door anyway to-

". . . Darling!"

His back was to her.

And even though she hadn't seen him in years she could still tell it was him.

Dave the Radio Man was facing the bastard which meant he could see her.

And with his eyes trained on the irate man's face, he casually flicked a hand in direction.

 _Back in._

And Annabel reversed and closed the door as quietly as she could.

Inside the cramped, windowless bathroom, she stood, fidgeted, ill at ease.

What if Gary tried to hurt Dave?

Or the station?

It would all be her fault and she would never-

Sudden knock on the door.

And she realized it had gone quiet.

 _Oh crap, what's here, what's here? I'm going to have to defend myself with a toliet plunger-_

"He's gone, Ana. You can come out."

She opened the door.

The station, so far as she could see, remained unaccosted.

As well as Dave, standing before her.

Who had for once taken his shades . . .

 _Damn, he_ must _be pissed._

. . . off.

"Apparently, you told his girlfriend he was trouble and not to date him."

Even tone.

Annabel clenched her jaw tight before releasing the tension to speak.

"Yes."

Dave's waiting face made her continue after a few more seconds.

"I went on a date with him back a few years ago. He wanted more than I wanted to give. So he tried to take it."

No reply. Annabel tried to wait him out.

But she couldn't.

"I got away. I was afraid she wouldn't."

Dave worked his jaw.

"Did you file a report with campus police?"

Annabel felt herself scowl.

"I tried. They basically blamed me for being naive."

Dave studied her a while longer. Then nodded.

"Okay. I'll call the campus police and report that we're getting threats against one of our staff. I'll try to keep you out of it."

Annabel nodded, relieved.

"But you need to go home."

She stared at him incredulously.

"Home? _Why?_! It's almost time for my shift!"

Dave gestured helplessly.

"I don't want him to catch you here and make trouble."

Annabel felt herself start to tremble on the inside.

"So you want me to get caught out there in the dark by myself with no protection at all?!"

Dave stared at her.

Then he spoke even quieter.

"No. I guess not."

* * *

Gary called four times that night during her shift to yell at her.

She hung up immediately every time without engaging, nerves jangling.

And tossed and turned restlessly on the couch in the radio station after her shift was over.

The next morning, in broad daylight, Annabel walked home.

Eyes shifting, highly alerted to everything and everyone around her.

When she got home, she was profoundly grateful for her three deadbolted apartment. And wondered . . .

 _I wished places had delivery._

. . . how long she could stay locked inside.

 _And I love my job._

* * *

She did go out eventually.

Sooner rather than later, really.

And of course with 4.5 _billion_ people in the world, she was bound to run into him.

But, by the grace of the Keeper of the Audiophiles, Dave was with her.

Mostly 'cause she had . . .

"Please? I really want to come to work tonight. I just needed a shower first."

"No problem, Ana."

. . . called him.

So there they were, traversing the outskirts of CU campus . . .

"Hey! Ana! Yeah, you!"

. . . alone and at night.

As if they were people or something.

 _The audacity._

And now there was yelling.

Bellowing actually.

"You know, you're causing a real problem for me! Just because you're a frigid prude with fucked-up eyes! You know how much sweet convincing I had to do just to get her to still go out with me?! Luckily she still realized what a dumb bitch you are!"

And her screaming back.

"You're the problem, asshole!"

 _He lunged at her suddenly then, face a snarl._

 _Dave the Radio Man stepped between them calmly._

 _Driving a clenched fist deep into Gary's belly._

Holy shit, my boss just punched my ex-almost rapist almost-boyfriend.

 _And pretty hard too._

 _Gary stiffened, gurgled breathlessly._

 _And started to sink to the ground as his knees wobbled._

Jesus, how hard did he hit him?

 _Then she saw the blood covering Dave's hand as he pulled it back._

 _And the knife._

What the shit?!

 _"Dave?" she whispered, aghast._

 _Dave, The ZenAss Radio Man, eyed her calmly._

 _"A vet can only put up with so much bullshit for so long."_

Um, okay.

 _"Now help me move the body."_

* * *

 _They watched the lake close up over him, bubbles popping over the weighted corpse._

 _"I guess you're more then just my boss now, huh?"_

 _Dave shrugged._

 _"Yeah, guess so."_

 _Then he turned away from the lake with dismissive finality._

 _"So what are you going to open with tonight?"_

 _She followed him, legs numb._

 _"Uh, I was thinkin' 'Dirty Deeds' by AC/DC."_

 _Dave chuckled._

 _"I don't know. Not very 'easy groove', is it?"_

 _She grinned, nerves finally starting to loosen._

 _"Depends on your perspect-"_

-Red and blue lights whirled in the night, temporarily blinding her and cutting off Gary's living, breathing . . .

 _I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed._

. . . rage.

"Problem here, folks?"

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

Sniffling.

"You were right."

Barely restrained sobs.

"Sherry?"

A second of silence.

"Yeah."

 _Shit._

"Are you okay, honey?"

Muffled sounds, as if someone was trying to get themselves desperately under control.

"No." Gathering pause. "I should have listened to you."

 _Yeah. You should have._

"It's okay. You didn't know me."

The girl once so bubbly, sounded broken.

"I'm . . . I'm going home to Pueblo. I just wanted to say I'm sorry first."

Then the line went dead.

 _Shit._

* * *

". . . of one Gerald R. Marsh was found on the side of the road by a jogger this morning. Police say it was an apparent hit-and-run and they have no suspects or leads at this time. In other news-"

 _Oh my god._

 _Wait._

 _Was this possibly on a road heading toward Pueblo?_

* * *

 **So, yes, the daughter of Jimmy the Lobster Boy has just as much of a wild carnie temper as we've witnessed before. She just restrains it. Or, in this case, projects it on to others. Shocker, eh?**

 **So, you know. Let me know!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing so loyally! :)**


	17. What's This Now?

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

What's This Now?

* * *

". . . twenty-nine, Mrs. Steen."

"Thank you, Jimmy."

"You're welcome. I'll have Ted bring these right on out."

"Alright."

"Have a good day, Mrs. Steen."

"You too, dear. 'Bye now."

"'Bye."

It was a typical day.

He'd woken up in his empty bed, Bette and Dot already-

 _With the chickens. Except we don't have any chickens._

Taken care of his bathroom necessities.

 _Indoor plumbing, it's just the b-Hey!_

 _Whew, that bidet still gets me everytime._

And the hooks.

 _Well, the kids are saying pirates are cool nowadays._

 _Of course, they usually have only one hook._

Eaten breakfast with his darlings.

". . . -achute pants."

"Yeah, that's a thinker alright."

Kissed them goodbye.

And walked, albeit a little slower than he seemed to used to, to the store in the rising sun and accompanying heat.

Which he told himself he hardly ever noticed anymore.

 _Boy, look at that sunrise._

 _I wonder what the it looks like in Boulder._

And then, the store.

The tinkle of the bell.

The small but loyal trickle of customers.

The cha-ching of the cash register.

The small talk, the quiet music on the transistor . . .

 _Man, I wish I could hear Annabel's show sometime._

 _My little girl. Out there on the airwaves._

 _Elsa'd have a cow for sure, old bag. Ha._

. . . behind him.

The tinkle of the bell as the customers left.

It was comforting. It was soothing.

And sometimes, a little humdrum.

Jimmy was the owner.

He didn't _have_ work the register.

And sometimes, he didn't.

Others were capable, needed to learn the ropes.

But for the most part, it was his baby and he rocked it.

Business was down, he had said that before.

The economy.

The new and improved and better stores out there.

And sometimes he wondered -

 _Ding._

"Welcome to Clark's."

Cheerful, welcoming . . .

"Let me know if you need anything."

. . . automatic greeting at this point.

After twenty-plus years, yeah.

Then he went on with his paper.

 _Who feeds a cat lasagna all day?_

Until his newest customer approached the counter.

And Jimmy . . .

"Hey, good afternoon."

. . . congenially he gave his full undivided . . .

 _I need to check the milk today._

. . . attention.

An older gentleman.

One he did not know.

Tall. Neither fat nor thin.

Pants. White shirt, dark jacket.

Striped tie.

And a blue and white baseball hat.

'Walmart'.

 _What's a Walmart?_

"Afternoon."

His voice was friendly, a little gravelly. And strong.

"I'm Sam."

Jimmy . . .

"Jimmy."

. . . immediately liked him.

The man held out a right hand, seemingly undeterred, to Jimmy's hook.

 _Ah, not scared of a freak, I see._

And Jimmy, curiosity somewhat aroused, shook with him.

"Nice store."

Stirrings of pride.

"Yeah. I like her."

Agreeable nodding of the head.

"How long you been open?"

Jimmy thought it.

"Well, I've been here a little more than twenty years. But it's been open for about fifty altogether."

The man nodded.

"Staple of the community then."

Jimmy's turn to shrug.

"I'd like to think so."

More amicable nodding.

"So, where you from, Sam?"

The old man smiled.

"Arkansas."

 _Wow._

"Quite a trip. Here on vacation?"

The old man smiled again.

"Business. Retail. Tooling around. Looking for the right place to open a store here in Florida."

And Jimmy's walls came up.

"Ah."

And he tried to stay casual.

"Grocery?"

The old man waved a dismissive hand.

"No, no. No competition. Retail merchandise."

 _Well, that's good. I wouldn't want to fight you over eggs._

Jimmy relaxed a little.

"Well, that's good. I wouldn't want to fight you over eggs."

 _Damn, I said it aloud._

And the older man smiled.

* * *

"He offered you a _job_?!"

It was Bette who had spoken.

Dot was currently speechless.

Jimmy, expression still mired in a state of mild shock.

"Yeah. Management. Said it was an impressive thing for a man with such limits to comport him like he had none."

There was a moment of quiet as the conjoined women worked out this statement.

"That's . . . good," Bette finally managed. "What does that mean?"

"It means, dear sister," Dot clarified aloud for the benefit of her darling husband, "that our Darling Jimmy is being lauded for his efforts."

 _You sound pretentious, Dot._

 _I sound proud, Bette._

"Where's the job?"

Jimmy sighed.

Dot had reached the crux of the matter.

"Quincy."

He didn't have to wait long.

"Where's that?"

"Northern Florida. Near Tallahassee. About four hours from here. He showed me his roadmap."

Silence prevailed.

 _Sister, it's so . . ._

 _. . . far._

And they sat there.

"I know, it's so far," Jimmy said quietly. "And we've always been here. Our whole lives are here."

He grinned a little self depreciatively.

"Well, _this_ life anyway."

He took another big sigh, resisting the urge to scratch his head with a hook.

"Our store is here." He swallowed. "I know it's not doing well, I know that. But it's ours. Dan gave it to us. That should mean something. And it does."

He paused for a moment. A big, long stretching pause that held alot of heavy unspokenness.

"I told him as much. He said he understood. Respected it. Said there wasn't any reason the store couldn't still be mine and a point of pride. No competition and all. Even said the extra cash would help us keep it going. Gave me his card. Told me to call him."

Bette and Dot sat in silence.

 _Sister?_

 _I don't . . . I don't know,. I just don't know._

* * *

 **So, cool fact. According to my research, Sam Walton actually chose Quincy, Florida for a store opening ('82) because** **the town's economy was low and he thought opening his store there would boost it. As well as the store making money.**

 **And that, gentle readers, is called a win-win.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and autumnrose2010 for reviewing previously as well as midnightrebellion86 who should always tell me what he really thinks, seriously, man. I like it.**

 **And we'll go back to Annabel, I promise.**

 **I'm on winter break now so I might just go cray-cray up in the day-day and post more fequently. Maybe Monday.**


	18. Obladi Oblada

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Obladi Oblada

* * *

". . . night of the twenty-sixth of February 1981?"

"At the radio station."

The cops questioned her of course.

"And you have proof of that?"

"Yes. Dave's got my time card."

And she answered them.

"And Dave is?"

"The radio station manager."

Calmly. Cooly.

"Dave Franklin."

"Yes."

Because she had nothing to hide.

"The two of you were in a verbal altercation with Mr. Marsh several days prior?"

"Yes. He approached us."

And really knew nothing.

"We have the report. Can you verify Dave Franklin's whereabouts on the night of the twenty-sixth?"

"No."

The cops, polite enough, professional gentlemen.

"And did you have any further contact with Mr. Marsh after the incident?"

"No."

Studied her carefully.

"Do you have any information at all that would help us in this case?"

"No."

Wrote everything down.

"Thank you, Miss Walker."

"You are free to go."

And let her go.

* * *

Dave the Radio Man had been with his long time girlfriend, Rhonda, at the time, Annabel later learned.

Which, if it was a purposeful hit-and-run, left only . . .

 _Damn. She did what I wouldn't._

Or any myriad of women angered by the prick.

 _And his dick._

 _Made that rhyme. Ha._

And then, because she didn't actually _know_ anything . . .

 _If she did do it, she deserves a medal._

 _And some damn peace._

. . . Annabel closed her mouth.

"Hello, darling!"

"So good to hear from you, Annabel!"

"How are things?"

"Oh, you know. Same old same old. How are you?"

And moved on with her life.

* * *

The world, with or without the recently deceased Gerald R. Marsh and the elusive Sherry Baby, was coming right along.

". . . IBM Personal Computer 5150 with a twenty megabyte hard drive for only three thousand dollars for all of your processing needs . . ."

Right at a clip, her dad would say.

". . . Sony walkman but I said I don't have two hundred bucks, man . . ."

Because people . . .

". . . I don't need a VCR, leave my Betamax _alone_ . . ."

. . . loved their stuff.

But for all those technological advancements, it was still a terrifying place at times.

Alabama lynchings . . .

 _It's 1981! How is this still happening?!_

. . . presidential assassination attempts . . .

 _Stop! Shooting! People!_

. . . and, yeah, problems trying to throw people into space.

 _Maybe we should just stay here on Earth._

College, at least for Ana, was still a thing.

Ethical Theory.

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit."

 _Huh. Okay. Thanks for the tip, Aristotle._

So were her few old friends.

"So explain to me about these leg warmers of yours, Jenny. Why not just wear pants?"

"'Cause it's a fashion statement! They look good!"

Along with a new one . . .

"No, seriously, Barry, I could literally listen to Reo Speedwagon all day!"

"I'll play it for you on my show this afternoon then."

. . . or two.

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

And for all the uncertainity and misery and maybe because of it, people still clung to their favorite tunes like lifelines.

"Hi, Ana."

In the drowning sea of rotten humanity.

"Hi, Patrick. How's it groovin'?"

Pause.

"Will you play 'Margaritville' by Jimmy Buffet?"

 _Ah, so that's how it's groovin'._

"Sure thing, man. Comin' in ten."

And she decided it was okay to care.

"Are you currently _in_ Margaritaville, Patrick?"

A little.

"No, I'm at work."

 _Well, that's good._

"Where do you work?"

Pause.

"Hammond's in Denver. It's a candy factory."

"Shut up, that's so cool!"

Pause.

"Thank you."

 _Why does he sound surprised? That is cool! Almost as cool as being a radio dj._

"I'll play your song soon, okay, Patrick?"

Pause.

"Thank you. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

* * *

"This one's going out to The Candy Man."

". . . lost shaker of salt . . ."

 _Watch out for that Margaritaville, Patrick. Slippery slope, sweetie._

And she spun on.

* * *

And on.

"Hey, you're listening to the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. This one's going out to The Candy Man of Hammonds."

". . . yellow brick road, where the dogs of society howl . . ."

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, Ana."

"Patrick! Hi! How are you?"

Pause.

"Will you play 'Runnin' on Empty'?"

"Sure. Long day?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You got it, Patrick. Comin' in ten."

* * *

". . . into the sun, but I'm runnin' behind . . ."

* * *

"This goes out to the Candy Man of Hammond's. It's gonna be okay, man. Just embrace it and let it flow out of you."

". . . I will get by . . . I will get by . . . I will get by . . . I will survive . . ."

* * *

"Candyman, I hope you're still out there and I hope you smell like chocolate."

". . . speaking words of wisdom . . . let it be . . . there will be an answer . . . let it be . . ."

* * *

Despite Valentine's Day, February wasn't shaping up to be a month for lovers.

"Listen, groovin' Night Shifters, sometimes we think people are good for us when they're really not. And it hurts figuring that out. But we've all been there. So when you do, you just gotta dig in and keep goin'. So sing along with me and Night Shifter Natalie now . . ."

". . . petrified, thinking I could never live without you by my side . . ."

"Because if somebody doesn't deserve you, you just gotta kick that trash to the curb, baby-"

* * *

"Stay strong, you guys. You deserve goodness in your life; we all do, amiright? So when it's bad, you just gotta let that bad go . . ."

". . . takin' me for a ride . . . the only good thing about bad blood is lettin' it slide . . ."

* * *

"Hi, Ana."

"Hey, Patrick. How are you?"

Pause.

"I think I'm getting better. Sam helps."

 _Oh, this is interesting._

"Tell me about Sam, Patrick."

Pause.

"Sam is my best friend."

"Tell me more."

Pause.

"Well, he likes to listen to your radio show while I'm at work."

Pause.

"We spend a lot of time going on walks and sniffing trees . . ."

He sounded so sincere Annabel found herself nodding along even as her brain whispered that she was being put on by someone she didn't know had the capacity to put people on.

". . . sleeps at the foot of my bed every night and licks my toes sometimes to wake me up in the morning."

"Patrick?"

Pause.

"Yeah?"

"If Sam isn't a dog then we need to discuss your roommate situation."

Gentle chuckle, which made her smile.

"Yeah. Sam's a dog. He is a scruffy little brown and white terrier I picked up at the pound a few years ago."

 _Sweet little pupsters._ _Oh my heart._

"He sounds wonderful."

Pause.

"Yeah. He makes me want to live when things are tough."

She had to force herself past the lump in her throat then.

"I'm glad you have him then, Patrick. Keep him close to you, alright?"

Pause.

"Judy didn't like him."

And Annabel had to bite down on a sudden rise of anger.

Cover with false dj cheer.

"Well, since that joyless cretin is out of both your hair, can I play a song for you? Maybe something easy and mellow for Sam?"

Pause.

"He likes 'Sultans of Swing' by Dire Straits."

"Groovy. Comin' in ten for him, man."

* * *

"This one's going out to Scruffy Sam the Sublime and the Chocolate Scented Candy Man. Stay mellow, fellows."

". . . sultans, we are the sultans of swing . . ."

* * *

 **In case the reference was too obscure, the chapter title is a Beetles song that continues with 'life goes on'. Of course, I knew it from the 90s show Life Goes On.**

 **And if I just insulted your pop culture intelligence, I apologize. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and autumnrose2010 for reviewing and not thinking the new Jimmy story arc was stupid. :)**

 **Thanks also to Dear Reader-we're book addicts for adding your support to this story as well. Yay!**


	19. Beware the Germs of March

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Beware the Germs of March

* * *

A radio dj's golden ticket is his or her voice.

The gift of the croon.

The talk.

The patter.

As long as the electricity and radio waves hold, they've got an audience.

Unless the audience can't hear them.

Enter laryngitis.

That sneaky little bastard.

Creeping in on tiny cat feet.

By way of bacteria. Fungus.

Or, more commonly, a virus.

A cold.

A, drumroll please, germ.

And when that germ sets up shop in the larynx, it becomes red and inflamed.

Swollen.

The dj, he or she can power through the muscle aches.

The fevers.

The other cold and flu-like symptoms.

What that person cannot power through is the complete and utter loss of voice box function at all.

 _Oh, you've_ got _to be kidding me._

Drinking the hot tea.

Breathing deep in the steam-filled tiny bathroom.

Only to not even be able to produce a decent hum.

Much less a voice.

 _Seriously?_

 _Nick Weller couldn't have gotten laryngitis way back freshman year when I was living in the dorms and he kept running around asking me how heaven was when I left it._

 _No. Me. Now._

 _Grrr._

Walking to work anyway in the cold because complete laryngitis cancels any and all telephone calls for the foreseeable future.

"Hey, Ana, you're early. Like, ten hours."

Silent note handed over.

A brief second of reading.

"Laryngitis, huh?"

Disgusted silent nod.

"Well, that's a pity 'cause I heard Tom got David Bowie to swing by on his tour and give an interview this afternoon."

Widened-silent mismatched eyes.

A dry chuckle.

"Just kidding. Okay, wow, you really do have laryngitis."

Narrowed, dangerous gaze.

"What, I had to be sure."

Silent glaring.

"Hey, do you want to hang out and see what else you can get into here?"

Vigorous nodding.

"Groovy. Alright, let's put some tea on for that voice and we'll get to it."

Silent palms pressed together, held out a little in thankfulness.

"No problem. You know, I think you could really have a future in radio. You've got such a passion and raw talent for it . . ."

Following people in charge around. People with knowledge.

People who, the silenter she was, talked even more.

". . . interface is getting jinked again . . ."

But it was good stuff.

Being eventually sent home anyway . . .

"Listen. Go home. Rest. Study. Get your voice back okay? We're gonna lose listeners without Ana Darling talkin' up the night waves, okay?"

Losing that day's paycheck . . .

 _It's going to be even tinier than usual. I guess I'll just have to have a deep breath for lunch tomorrow._

 _Well, maybe not that bad._

. . . as well as an evening of the most fun job a person could ever hope to have.

Sitting on the couch of an icebox apartment.

Sipping honey with lemon, pretending it didn't induce gagging.

But getting some really good study time in . . .

 _Advanced Rhetoric and Composition. It even_ sounds _painful._

. . . basically because there was nothing else to do anyway.

* * *

Annabel's virus-induced, accidental foray into temporary mutism lasted three whole days.

Then she was off the fourth day.

And by the fifth day, she had just decided that she was going to use her husky new, man-voice as part of her on-air . . .

"Hey, you're listening to the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. It may not sound like me but rest assured, fellow audiophiles, it is. Cold and flu season may not be tons of fun but hey, we all survive."

Careful swallow of ick tea.

"So now that the confessional has been made, let's get to what really matters. You guys and your tunes."

. . . persona.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hey, would you play 'Summer Breeze'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Reelin' in the Years'!"

"Hey, do you got 'Listen to the Music'?"

"You got it, man. Comin' in ten."

And back to the old, wonderful musical grind.

"Hey, good to hear you back, Ana! We missed you!"

"Thanks for the shout out, Sewell Hall. Allow me to return the favor with a little appreciation spin-"

". . . sweet it is to be loved by you . . ."

With some pleasant variations.

* * *

And then, right toward the middle of the night, what she had decided she wasn't waiting for happened.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, Ana."

"Hi, Patrick! How are you?"

"Better now. How are you?"

"I'm getting there maybe. A little worried I'm starting to sound like Redd Foxx over here."

Quiet chuckle, a true reward from the Grand Stoic Pauser.

"Can I request a song?"

"Of course, Patrick. What would you like?"

Pause, pause, pause.

"'Ain't No Sunshine' by Bill Withers."

She grinned.

"Oh, that's a good one."

Scant pause.

Followed by a quick reply.

"It's for you."

And then, uncharacteristically, he hung up.

* * *

She played it.

And turned it up.

Strings and drums, a mellow, timber tone, and a perfect strummed bass guitar wrapped her up in the warmest, most sensual tune she had ever allow to pervade her being.

". . . sunshine when she's gone . . . only darkness every day . . ."

Not even her Bowie couldn't touch it.

" . . . anytime she goes away . . ."

She had not announced the song as a request for her, but she felt like everyone listening within the forty mile square radius had some clairyonant ability to sense that it was.

And when it was over, she simply could not find the words, find the song, find the response adequate enough to express her feelings.

She spun another track and another and another.

And then realized as she was spinning, he was still out there.

Him without a base, without his confidence, without his response.

And she simply could not think of one.

Finally . . .

"All right, Mr Sunshine, your lady wants you to know that you spin beautiful midnight tunes. She invites you to give her a ring so you two can speak further on such musical matters in private."

Her own pause, short and sweet for radio ears.

"And now for a word on Ovaltine from John Denver."

* * *

"Hi, Ana."

"Hi, Patrick. Thank you for the song. It was beautiful."

Pause pause pausey pause pause pause.

So Annabel filled it, vaguely aware of an impeding blush rising up from her toes.

"I've never had anyone dedicate a song to me before."

Pause.

"That's hard to believe."

The blush was somewhere around her neck.

"Did you also send one to Cuppa Morning Joe when he went on vacation last month?"

Pause.

"No."

Pause.

"I don't like him."

Pause. Pause.

Pausey pause pause pause.

"So you like me?"

Grand Fantastic Pause.

"Yes."

The blush had enveloped her entire cranium.

"Lucky me then."

Paaaaauuuuuuuuse.

"Okay."

 _Okay, my nerves are shot._

"Patrick?"

Pause.

"Yeah?"

"You're not a serial killer, are you?"

Pause.

"No."

 _Well that's good._

"Patrick?"

Pause.

"Yeah?"

Annabel Pause.

"Can I ask another question?"

Pause.

"Yeah."

* * *

 **What? It _is_ a good song! ;)**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing!**


	20. My Own Private Nightshifter

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

My Own Private Night Shifter

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, Ana."

"Hi, Patrick!"

By April he didn't call in every night.

And she didn't expect him to.

She had a life; he had a life.

They had lives.

That being said . . .

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

. . . they did spend a lot of time talking to each other in the night hours.

* * *

"How did you know I didn't like to be called 'Pat'?"

"What do you mean?"

Sometimes they talked so long, she had to put him on hold to run her patter . . .

". . . spinning the tunes for all you Night Shifters tonight. You guys are groovy . . ."

. . . spot an ad . . .

". . . lose weight fast, get AYDS . . ."

. . . and simply play songs.

". . . out to Joanie from Chachi . . ."

He always waited.

And she always . . .

"Hey, thanks for waiting."

. . . thanked him for it.

Pause.

"Sure."

And he always sounded like it was the most natural thing ever.

Theirs was mostly a music-based conversation.

". . . McCartney do so well after the Beatles went bust."

"Please, Patrick, I'm still in mourning. But yeah."

Although it progressed finally . . .

"When I called and requested 'Steppin' Stone', you started calling me Patrick instead of Pat."

. . . to slightly lesser music based.

"Oh. Well, I don't know. It was just a feeling."

Pause pause pause.

"I hate 'Pat'. It's like 'pat the dog' or something. I like dogs but . . ."

He trailed off for a second and she let him.

"I don't want to be one. Not even Sam."

The thought had occurred to her.

"Well," Annabel cleared her throat. "I hear Patrick is also the name of some Catholic saint or something."

Pause.

"Yeah. Saint Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland."

"Oh. Are you Catholic?"

Pause.

"No."

She waited.

He didn't say anything.

At all.

And then . . .

 _Okey dokey then._

"Is Ana Darling your real name?"

"No. It's Annabel Walker. My dad's last name was Darling a long time ago. He . . . changed it."

"Oh. Annabel."

 _Oh. He said my name. He said my real name._

She couldn't describe it, didn't really want to admit it, but hearing him say her real name felt . . . intimate.

Like he knew her more than other people did.

Nobody here ever said it. And that was okay, she never introduced herself as such. Never really wanted to.

But he had said it. So nicely.

And she wanted him to say it again.

"Where are you from?"

"Oh, um, Florida. Near Tampa."

Impressed Pause.

"Wow." Pause. "How'd you get here?"

She shrugged casually enough though she knew he couldn't see the motion over the telephone line.

"I had to get away from my family," she admitted, clinging to the barest of truths. "They're . . . weird."

 _I've got a two headed mom and a dad with no hands._

There was a pause that she decided to had to fill immediately by deflecting attention off herself.

"What about you? Where're you from?"

He didn't answer right away and she wondered if she had gotten too personal.

Or if it was just another Patented Patrick Pause.

"Denver," he finally responded.

 _Oh. Denver. That's not bad._

"That's where your family's from?"

 _Obviously._

Patrick pause.

This one so long she started to wonder if the line had been disconnected.

"Patrick? You there?"

Since she couldn't imagine him actually hanging up on her.

Again.

"Yeah. I'm here. Uh, I don't know where my family's from. I don't have any."

Low key dread and confusion started skittering around inside her.

"What do you mean? Did they die?"

He paused a third time and she wondered if they were getting too deep in revelations here and needed to return to focusing the royalty of Queen Rock Montreal.

"I don't know," he repeated. "I was left on a doorstep when I was a baby. I grew up in Mount St Vincent's in Denver."

 _Oh._

 _Shit._

"Oh Patrick, I'm so sorry. I . . . I didn't know."

His voice sounded carefully colorless after his patented Pause.

"It's okay. I didn't tell. I don't wear a sign."

 _Hello, my name is Orphan and my girlfriend dumped me. Can I hear 'Fire' by The Pointer Sisters?_

 _Oh god. I'm a horrible, ungrateful person._

 _And I need to call my parents._

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, Annabel."

"Hey, Patrick. How are you?"

Pause.

"I'm fine. I'm off work tonight. Sam and I are listening to your show."

Brief Patrick Pause.

"Will you play 'Brandy' by Looking Glass?"

She grinned into the handset.

"Oh yeah, that's a good song!"

Then, almost against her will . . ."

"Anybody special?"

Pause.

"You."

Blush.

"Ah. And you're not hanging up this time?"

Pause.

"Should I?"

Glow.

"Only if your nickel's about to run out."

Pause.

"No. I'm all stocked up."

 _Gettin' braver I see._

"Good to hear. Let me put you on hold while I run this patter, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

". . . fine girl . . . good wife you would be . . ."

 _I'm not quite ready for a marriage proposal from this guy yet. He could be a serial killer._

". . . get back, honky cat . . . to the woods . . ."

 _Just keepin' it light tonight, Patrick._

* * *

"Have you seen Stripes?"

"No. Is it good?"

"Yeah, it's fun. You should take Sam."

Pause.

"Yeah."

 _Or me._

* * *

". . . do magic . . . have anything that you desire . . ."

 _Desire might be a strong word. Hmm, let's see . . ._

". . . in the air that night . . . bright, Fernando . . ."

* * *

"You know something I really like about you, Patrick?"

Pause.

"No."

"I like that when you request songs, you always know the real name. And the artist. It's like it's important to you or something."

Patrick Pause, practically grinning through the phone line.

"It is important. But you already know that."

She beamed.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Pause.

"Well, in that case, will you play . . ."

* * *

". . . and you and a dog named Boo . . ."

 _Okay, now that one has got to be a direct proposal._

". . . be there, yes, I will . . . you've got a friend . . ."

* * *

There were several reasons she wasn't plunging headfirst into the pool of Patrickness.

Dave the Radio Man was part of it.

"Gotta a guy out there on the waves?"

"Oh, uh, kinda. Maybe. How do you know?"

He raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"'Cause I'm alive and I listen to the radio, Ana. And even though you haven't said or done anything wrong before you _ask_ ," he raised a hand to stop her advancing question onslaught.

"I've just seen more than one unsuspecting charmer end up with a creepy stalker."

Dave shrugged.

"Just be careful. No personal information like your social security number or home address. And don't be afraid to come to me if you get worried, okay?"

Annabel nodded.

"Okay. Thanks."

* * *

And then there was Jenny.

They met for coffee or a cinnamon bun every so often.

"So, you've got a guy. Finally."

"What do you mean?"

"Ana. I've never seen you so happy. It's either drugs or a guy. And you don't look like you're on drugs, so you must be on a guy."

"No, I'm not 'on' a guy. I'm currently 'on' this chair at the moment."

Jenny sighed in exasperation.

"You know what I mean."

 _Yeah, I know, Ms. Horndog._

And so, against her better judgment, Ana told her some.

Not his name. Not where he was from.

Just . . . stuff.

And Jenny frowned.

"This guy does not sound like a good time at _all_ , Ana," she declared, smirching up her nose.

"And what do you really know about him anyway? He could be a forty year old guy with three kids and a wife!"

Annabel flinched.

She wasn't . . . wrong.

She was going on a lot at face value.

 _Well, not_ face _value._

"I've never even seen him," she objected, trying to gain footing in the slippery slope she was attached to. "We just talk over the phone. And listen to music."

Jenny rolled her eyes.

"You're getting invested. You're already guessing things about him you don't even know just because they fit into your box of ideas."

Jenny patted her hand comfortingly as she spoke her last words on the matter.

"So dump him. You don't need someone around who's got problems."

Annabel pursed her lips, screwed up her face what she was sure was a most unladylike expression of pissed-off-ed-ness.

 _He doesn't have_ problems _. He just hasn't had the easiest life._

And took a bite of her muffin.

 _I hate friends._

But she didn't.

 _And anyway, I can't dump him. You can't dump someone you aren't even dating._

Not really.

 _So there._

* * *

She herself was another part.

 _He can't see my eyes over the radio. He doesn't know what a freak I am. I'm safe out here on the nightwaves._

"Annabel?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think everything happens for a reason? Or do you think it's all chaos?"

She was answerless.

* * *

". . . old song . . . just a drop of water in an endless sea . . ."

But also, since there just _had_ to be hope in a sometimes fatalistic world . . .

". . . stick with you, baby, for a thousand years . . . nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years . . ."

* * *

"Judy called me yesterday."

Annabel felt her heart inexplicably stutter to a halt.

"Really."

Pause.

"Yeah. Said the assistant manager cheated on her with a waitress in Vegas. She said she was sorry and wanted me back."

 _Jeez. Could this woman be anymore cliche?_

All the same, Annabel's mouth went dry.

"Wow, what'd you say?"

Pause.

 _Not now, you Pausing Pauser! Not now!_

"I told her to leave me alone. I told her I wasn't going to let her treat me like crap anymore."

Annabel felt simultaneously like cheering with joy and bursting into tears of relief.

"What'd she say to that?"

Pause.

"She cried. Called me a heartless asshole loser. Said she should have known better, that I'd alway been one. I hung up."

Finally, pretending her voice wasn't quavering, she managed to speak again.

"Did you really care about Judy, Patrick?"

Patrick's response was barely audible.

"I wanted to. At the time."

She thought about it.

"How about now?"

Patrick Pause.

"No. Not any more."

Annabel allowed herself to ask.

"Are you sure?"

Patrick Pause, then his voice coming back stronger, more definite.

"Yes. I'm sure."

She hoped.

"Well, you know what they say."

Pause.

"What do they say?"

"Sometimes when one door closes, you know . . ."

She could almost see him there on the other end of the phone, nodding agreeably, thinking in his head, _oh yeah, that thing._

". . . you just gotta find a hammer and some nails and make sure that bitch stays closed."

And as Patrick's quiet gales of laughter washed gently over her, intermingling with . . .

". . . dancin', swayin' to . . ."

. . . the music.

". . . dancin', just me and my girl . . ."

And Annabel was happy.

* * *

She was also ready to maybe . . .

"This one goes out to Patrick from a secret admirer."

. . . perhaps . . .

"You better be able to figure out who."

. . . possibly . . .

 _"Darling."_

. . . be a little braver herself.

". . . not talking about movin' in . . . and I don't want to change your life . . . but there's a warm wind blowin' the stars around . . .

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, Annabel."

"Hi, Patrick!"

* * *

"My break is almost over but . . ."

His pause was heavy and loaded with uncertain determination.

". . . will you . . ."

So much so her heart started fluttering.

". . . play 'Last Train to Clarksville' by The Monkees?"

 _Oh._

"Sure. Are you going on a trip?"

Pause.

"No."

"Okay."

Pause.

"Goodnight, Annabel."

"Good night, Patrick."

* * *

". . . time for coffee-flavored kisses and a bit of conversation . . ."

 _Oh._

* * *

"Good song you picked the other night."

Patrick Pause.

"Yeah."

Annabel chewed her lip.

"Do you have a question to ask me, Patrick?"

Pausey pause pause pause.

"Yes."

Pause.

"Um . . ."

* * *

 **Ah, yes, AYDS. The unfortunately named appetite suppressant candy of the '70s and '80s. Incidently, the same year AIDS first started presenting itself in L.A.**

 ***historical shudder***

 **And a little character development for Patrick there and there's more to come too.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnight rebellion86 for reviewing so much!**


	21. Back At Home

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Back At Home

* * *

 _I don't know, Sister._

It hung on their minds.

 _We've always lived here. This is our home._

Discussed here and there.

 _People here look at us._

And randomly.

 _But we know them._

Maybe not so randomly.

 _Well, some of them._

 _But how do we even consider leaving this place?_

Either way . . .

 _I don't know._

. . . they discussed it . . .

 _And do we even really . . ._

. . . exhaustively.

 _. . . want to?_

* * *

Jimmy Darling Walker had grown up on the move.

Carnie life.

Nowhere for more than a few months at a time.

At most.

He had loved it.

He had hated it.

He had never known anything else.

But then the world as he knew it, had changed.

As he had dreamt of.

And his dream, after so many years spent it living it, wasn't a nightmare.

Not by a long shot.

But it was . . .

"Hey, welcome to Clark's."

. . . somewhat wearing at times.

"Hey, welcome to . . ."

The question really was . . .

"Hey, welcome . . ."

. . . was he really ready to uprooted his entire family . . .

"Hey . . ."

. . . on a whim?

* * *

 _We can't hold him back, Sister._

 _But we can't just throw ourselves into the world either, Dot._

 _If he really does want to try this, he'll resent us if we don't let him._

 _It's not just about him, Dot. We're the ones they stare at, not him. They think Jimmy is some kind of hero._

 _And he is._

 _Yes, he is._

 _But we're important too._

 _Too important for rubberneckers to pass up rubbernecking._

 _Do we even know what this Quincy place is like?_

 _Like every other place on earth, I'm sure. Full of people who don't know us._

* * *

"We were thinking, Jimmy . . ."

Green beans shuffled anxiously around the dinner plate.

"Is this . . ."

Careening right into the mashed potatoes.

". . . Walmart thing . . ."

A disaster in the making for sure.

". . . something you're really . . ."

One they should have had the foresight to avoid.

". . . interested in?"

But had not.

"Or is it just a passing thought?"

Jimmy, seemingly unaware of the catastrophic series of events taking place mere inches away from his own much more calm supper consumption, shrugged.

"I don't know. I don't want to leap without looking or anything."

Eyes carefully trained on their plate.

"It'd be weird, though, huh? Being in a different place and all."

Roll lifted up . . .

"Well, the thing is . . "

. . . crumbs falling down atop the Salisbury steak . . .

" we're not sure if . . ."

. . . marring its perfectly gravied surface.

". . . we really want to move."

Jimmy, nodding already in acceptance, guessing as much.

"Yeah, silly idea, I guess."

Ice rattling brittlely in tea-d glass . . .

"But that doesn't mean . . ."

. . . wet with condensation . . .

". . . _you_ couldn't go."

. . . in danger of slipping . . .

"We don't want to hold you back . . ."

. . . shattering completely.

". . . from your dreams."

Jimmy, stopping his evening mastications entirely.

Lightly lined face finally turning up to them.

Eyes, dark and confused.

As if he had not heard them correctly.

"What are you talking about?"

* * *

They sat together on the couch.

Supper left abandoned and uneaten.

Together for now. But silence and uncertainty threatening to wedge them apart.

"So, you're suggesting . . ." Jimmy spoke slowly, as if trying to work out in his mind what they had said into something he could understand.

"You drive up there Sunday afternoons and stay through the week," Dot replied simply, refusing to sound anything other than completely confident.

"Then you drive home Friday afternoon and spend the weekend with us," Bette concluded, doing her best to match her sister's even tone.

And Jimmy their darling stared.

"Without _you_?"

They kept their hands folded calm and still in their shared lap.

They refused to squirm, to fidget.

To show worry.

"Only for the week."

Jimmy frowned.

"But we've never been apart for more than a _day_."

 _Except when you were almost dying in the hospital._

 _Hush, Sister._

"We're not ready to be gawked at anymore than we already are here, Jimmy," Dot stated gently.

But firmly.

"But we want you to be able to go out into the world if you want to," Bette continued.

"And we believe our relationship together is strong enough for the time we'd be apart," Dot concluded once more.

Jimmy sputtered for a long moment.

And then stopped.

Still. Lost.

Finally . . .

"But I'd . . . I'd _miss_ you two."

And the twins smiled.

 _We love him, Sister._

 _Yes, we do, Bette._

* * *

And so it was decided.

Initially.

Jimmy would contact Mr. Walton, voice his interest.

And lay down his proposal.

Citing family needs and concerns.

At least for the first six months, trial basis.

And if the proposal was denied, well, he had Clark's already and it wasn't meant to be anyway.

And if it was accepted, well, in roughly a year's time, Jimmy would enter the wider world.

Residing in a boarding house, short term tenant of some sort.

Leaving Bette and Dot behind.

At least for Monday morning through Friday evening.

* * *

"So, darling, how's college?"

But they weren't ready to talk about these things with their daughter just yet.

"How's your radio job?"

They'd rather just relax . . .

"And the apartment."

 _So much to keep up with._

 _She's a bullet, isn't she?_

. . . and enjoy the after eight long distance call.

Phone perched between them so they could both hear their daughter's tinny voice coming to them from far away Colorado.

 _I wonder if it's really like it is on Mork and Mindy._

 _Do you think our daughter's falling in love with the alien who lives in her attic?_

 _Oh hush, Sister._

"It's good. College is good. Work is good. My apartment is a wreck. Ha."

 _She sounds so happy._

 _A little too happy. Do you think she's found a man?_

 _I don't know. She doesn't seem to have been looking for one._

"Dave said he'd work something out to record one of my sessions so I could bring it home so you could listen to my show."

 _I like this boss of hers._

 _Our little girl. On the air._

"Anything else of note, darling?"

"No, not really. The heater broke in my apartment last week."

 _I wonder why she's not talking about him._

 _Who?_

 _Her new man._

 _What new man?_

 _I think she has a new man._

"Well, I hope you're not too cold."

Light pause. Full of invisible light and energy.

"Nope. I'm good. So what are you guys having for dinner?"

 _She definitely has a man._

 _You're right. She never asks what we eat._

* * *

 **I know, I know. Stop breaking up the band, Yoko.**

 **But it'd be interesting anyway, huh?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for so graciously reviewing so much. :D**

 **Up next, hello, Patrick.**


	22. I've Been Waiting For You

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

I've Been Waiting For You

* * *

She had anxiously parked herself at the designated outdoor cafe table.

Hiding behind her big sunglasses, pretending to be casual while constantly scanning the crowd for him.

Patrick.

Denver Patrick.

He was coming all the way from Denver.

Well, Westminster.

And he would be sorry he'd made the trip.

Once he saw her eyes.

 _Stupid impulsivity. What was I thinking? Oh god._

But she was here.

Here she was.

And he was on his way.

 _I'm feeling lightheaded and dizzy. I think I might be having a stroke._

But she wasn't. And she knew it.

So she sat there.

Waiting.

A few people glanced at her randomly but she could tell none of them were really 'looking'.

Then there was one.

Walking toward her. Slowly. Uncertainly.

Hesitantly.

And she knew it was him.

His height wasn't that impressive, he was only a few inches above her.

Not stocky, but the look of stocky. Like he could be stocky if he decided to couch it for a while.

As he got closer, she saw the rest of him was nondescript too.

Brown hair, short and a little wavy.

Greenish-brownish eyes set in a basic, generous face.

Maybe a few years older than her, maybe as much as twenty-five to her twenty.

Depending on personal perspective, either somewhat friendly-looking and handsome or rather plain and unimpressive.

Simple jeans and brown Colorado rain jacket for the April air.

White sneakers.

Much akin to her own clothes.

Annabel wouldn't have picked him out of a lineup, not known his face if she hadn't been looking for it.

But she had talked with him, accumulated hours and hours over the course of months.

And listened to his soul poured out over music, his experience.

So to her, he was more than his face when she first saw him.

He was an entire human being.

"Annabel?"

And smiled nervously.

And Annabel melted completely.

Or would have.

"Yes. Hi."

Patrick Pause, in person this time.

"Hi. Sorry I'm late. I was . . . nervous."

"Oh, that's okay. It's only a few minutes."

Her stubborn Wall of Pride would not allow her to tell him she was nervous as hell too.

Not yet.

"Nice day."

"Yeah."

Because she couldn't.

Because the time had come.

For her to bite the bullet and do it.

Watch him flinch.

Even though she had _told_ him her eyes were different.

And nobody ever _really_ got it 'til they saw them.

And nobody _ever_ had a good reaction either.

 _I mean, how could they?_

But she would have to take off her sunglasses eventually.

Even in this dazzling Boulder sun.

And she really should do it before the wedding night.

 _There's not going to be a wedding night. He's going to walk away as soon as you show him your eyes._

So she stood up.

And with every cell shrieking in protest, Annabel Margaret Walker removed her sunglasses.

And watched his jaw slacken, his mouth drop open a little bit.

Knowing what he was seeing.

Not her messy blond braid or her svelte (okay, fine, skinny) Jordache-d frame.

But her eyes.

Knowing her pupils, adjusting to the glare, were shrinking to pinpoints.

Making her light blue and dark brown heterchromia, if at at possible, even more obvious.

Even more abrasive.

It hurt, oh _god_ , did it hurt.

It ripped her heart in two.

Shredded it like a torn up love letter.

Knowing what he was thinking.

 _Ugly eyes._

 _Freak._

She clenched her jaw, trying to stay tough.

 _I felt like I knew you._

 _On the inside._

 _I thought you were different._

And then, eyes wide and staring just like every-goddamn-body else on the entire _planet_ , he spoke.

Spoke in an almost awed whisper.

Like he was seeing the bearded lady. Or a woman with two heads.

"You . . . your eyes . . ."

 _Yeah, I know. Go ahead. Say it._

". . . you're so . . . beautiful."

It was not April Fool's Day.

 _What?_

It was her turn now to be shocked, her turn to have her jaw unhinge and drop open.

 _What?!_

Then his face cleared and he blushed, looking like he had to tear his eyes away from her face with effort.

Shifting his gaze around from the sky to the planted trees to the ground.

"I'm sorry, I . . ."

And finally back to her.

"I just didn't _know_."

And she couldn't speak.

"I mean, I knew your voice was beautiful and your mind was beautiful and your heart was beautiful . . ."

His ramble faded off for a moment as he seemed at a loss for words.

Before he started up again.

"I mean, when you said your eyes were weird, I thought you meant, like, one was hanging off your face or someth-"

A bark of laughter escaped her-

". . . but I didn't know you were just . . . so _beautiful_."

Annabel realized she was holding one hand clamped over her mouth from covering her burst of laughter.

And that tears were starting to overflow her heterchromiated eyes.

Her beautiful heterchromiated eyes.

 _I never-_

Patrick stopped, expression slightly alarmed.

"I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

And Annabel's Great Wall of Self-Preservation crumbled entirely.

" _No_."

And she stumbled numbly forward, heart swelling so much it hurt.

Reaching up, not a lot, just the right amount,

Wrapping her arms around the shoulders of this stunned man she had never met.

And bawling uncontrollably . . .

 _Oh my god, I'm going to marry him._

. . . into his shoulder.

* * *

Eventually she started regaining some semblance of control over herself.

She thought.

Enough to realize she was cuddled up in the embrace of a man she hardly knew.

Who, interestingly enough, didn't smell like chocolate at all.

 _Well, duh, stupid, he does shower, don't you think?_

Just shower. And clean clothes.

She also realized that he was still holding her, lightly, probably with surprise.

 _It's okay. I_ _know_ _him. I know him._

"I'm sorry," she apologized, stepping back and wiping her eyes. "I don't usually cry on complete strangers. Well, you're not a complete stranger-"

And she stopped, feeling like she had just insulted all their time spent talking together.

Patrick didn't seem to take umbrage. Only shook his head, looking somewhat relieved.

"No, that's okay. I'm just glad you're not mad at me."

She burst into slightly hysterical laughter again, knowing that she probably sounded like a crazy person yet unable to entirely calm herself.

"Why would I be _mad_ at you?"

He blushed harder.

"'Cause . . . well, I kind of hit on you the second I met you."

She sniffed, trying to save what little of her makeup hadn't cried itself down the front of his jacket.

And smirking cheekily at him.

"No, you hit on me the first time you requested 'Brandy'."

He grinned lopsidedly and ducked his head.

"Oh."

She nudged him a little, still wondering if she was going to wake up from her dream anytime soon.

And ferevently hoping not.

"Didn't you?"

He seemed to just manage to glance up into her face again.

"Well, yeah."

 _Oh god, I hope he's not a serial killer._

"So," he seemed to hedge. "What do you want to do?"

She glanced around.

"Well, we could go for a walk and talk."

And he smiled.

 _Oh jeez, he's so cute._

* * *

They walked around Boulder for hours.

Keeping to public venues and welltrod pathways.

Hands shoved in pockets at first.

Then later, her slyly slipping an arm through his.

Tucking into his side, matching their steps.

Him grinning bashfully at her, her refusing to apologize for finally feeling such a sense of acceptance.

They talked about everything that came to their minds.

Including . . .

"Did you hear about Richard Pryor?"

"Oh my god, idiot, don't free base heroin. The end."

And . . .

"Have you ever played PacMan?"

""No."

"Patrick, seriously, you _have_ to play PacMan!"

And of course . . .

". . . Queen could get any better but they're doing it."

"Yeah, they're pretty good."

She missed two classes. And a study session.

But she did score a hot dog and they shared . . .

"It's full of fat and sugar and calories and everything."

"Oh my god, it's so good."

. . . a good sized hunk of rocky road fudge.

At the end of the day, they meandered back to the place they had started.

They were holding hands now and she did not let go as she turned and faced him.

He smiled at her, something he seemed to have done for most of the day.

A small smile, tilting up one side of his mouth, crinkling his eyes just a little bit.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Annabel."

She smiled.

"Thank you for not being freaked out by my eyes."

He gazed at her.

"You're beautiful. You. Your eyes. All of you."

 _Please don't be a serial killer, please don't be a serial killer._

"Thank you," she managed, trying not to fall down. "You're not too bad yourself."

 _Oh, he blushed again. That is so cute._

"Can I kiss you?"

 _Did he just ask?_

"Yes."

He seemed ready to lean in.

 _I hope my breath is okay_ _after that fudge_

But paused.

Glanced down, raised their intertwined fingers.

And kissed the back of her hand.

It was only a moment but it was the best moment she could remember in a long, long time.

Then he lowered her hand and blushed.

"Sorry. I got nervous."

 _Oh my god, I think I love him._

As he let go of her hand, she stepped forward.

Wrapping her arms around him again, as naturally as she had ever embraced anyone.

And hugged him.

"Thank you, Patrick," she whispered, eyes closed.

Kissed his cheek.

And stepped back.

The look on his face was indescribable.

She had never seen such a look on a man's face before in her entire life.

He looked . . . emotional.

More than emotional.

Overwhelmed.

Overcome.

Like his whole world had come together in that moment.

Or something.

Then he smiled that little smile again . . .

"Goodbye, Annabel."

"Goodbye, Patrick."

. . . and turned and walked away.

Head down. Hands in pockets. Shoulders hunched.

And Annabel Margaret Walker . . .

 _What a beautiful man._

. . . watched him go.

* * *

 **And there's Patrick. I've waited a long time to reveal him to Annabel. And us.**

 **Please tell me what you think. :)**

 **And no, they haven't talked marriage. Annabel's just being cheeky, dramatic, in love little Annabel.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing!**

 **And Happy 2019 to everyone! *flings confetti* We are still alive!**


	23. In Cars With Boys, Part 2

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

In Cars with Boys, Part 2

* * *

"Would you like to go see Raiders of the Lost Ark with me?"

"Yes, I'd love to!"

Then she thought of Little Miss Hey Jude.

"But only if we go dutch."

Pause.

"It's okay. I can pay."

Annabel grinned cheekily into the phone.

"Yeah, well, so can I. And then we can be partially broke together."

He didn't say anything so she kept cajoling.

"Come on, I won't take 'no' for an answer, Patrick. I'm a modern woman who doesn't need to be wined and dined to feel important and special."

This seemed to baffle any argument he might have been formulating during his Patented Patrick Pause.

Finally . . .

"Okay. If you say so."

She nodded in satisfaction to the otherwise empty midnight radiostation.

"I do."

Annabel Pause.

Then, much more sincere.

"I just don't want to take advantage of you. You're a nice guy."

Pause.

"Thank you, Annabel."

She wasn't sure if the thank you was in regard to her compliment or her treating him like a decent person.

Either way . . .

"You're welcome, Patrick."

. . . it made her heart ache a little.

It wasn't until later she thought of He-Who-Was-Made-Squished-Squirrel-On-The-Road-To-Pueblo-Because-He-Was-A-DoucheMonkey.

 _Oh. And there's that too. I guess._

 _But Patrick? Oh please._

* * *

He picked her up in his car.

A dingy, dull, red, 1969 Pontiac Le Mans.

Leather seats cracked, one headlight out.

Basic AM/FM, she saw, tuned to 88.5.

"Sorry about the car."

He seemed helplessly embarrassed.

"Does it drive?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

Annabel shrugged.

"Well, that's all matters to me."

And it was.

* * *

The food was good.

"Do you like the pizza?"

"Yes! Is it all over my face?"

"No. Well, maybe a little on your chin."

She wiped it, grinning.

"Well, maybe I was saving that for later."

And winked playfully.

Earning one of those small little perfect Patrick smiles.

 _Yay._

* * *

And the movie was awesome.

 _Hey, Han! What're you doing out of space?_

"Indy, why does the floor move?"

"Give me your torch."

"Snakes. Why'd it have to be snakes?"

 _Oh hell_ no _. Game freaking_ over _._

Patrick's arm next to hers on his armrest was warm and solid and comfy.

And the popcorn . . .

 _Mmm, buttery._

. . . was delicious.

She caught him looking at her from time to time and stole glances when she thought he wasn't looking too.

And sometimes even when she thought he might.

Because she just couldn't get enough of him.

And the fact that he wasn't trying to grope her . . .

 _I wonder if I need to get some silky lingerie like Marion there. All I ever wear is a tshirt and socks._

 _Oh wait, Indy fell asleep. Ha. Okay, never mind._

. . . in public.

"Do you want some more soda, Annabel?"

"No, thanks. I don't want to leave the movie to go the bathroom."

"Oh. Okay."

 _Should I not have said that?_

 _No, he doesn't care._

And then she put her head on his shoulder.

He didn't protest.

* * *

They talked the entire drive back.

Talked and listened to music.

It was so easy.

It was so enjoyable.

It was so Patrick. And her.

Her and Patrick.

She thought he might park the car on the edge of campus.

She thought that might be okay this time.

She wanted to kiss him, be touched by him.

Because she felt totally safe and at ease with him.

She was willing to let things go far.

 _I mean, it's Patrick._

Even if she didn't know how to do those things yet. She thought she could figure it out.

And she wouldn't mind trying with him.

She already knew he didn't even wear English Leather.

 _I don't think he even wears any cologne._

 _I think he's just . . . him._

And she wanted to find out more.

 _Okay, buddy. Bring it on. I'm ready._

But she wasn't really surprised when he instead drove straight to her apartment.

Not surprised.

 _Oh Patrick._

But very, very pleased.

 _You're such a gentleman._

Unless . . .

 _You don't like me like that?_

But who was she kidding?

 _I think he's kind of in love with me._

 _And I'm definitely falling in love with him._

He shut off the car in front of her apartment building and without further pretense, opened the door.

She followed suit and met him at the front of the car.

Hands stuffed in coat pockets.

Ghostly breath intermingled in the chill April eve.

"Thank you for the date, Patrick."

He smiled.

"Thank you for coming with me."

She shivered, not making it up. But taking the segue as it presented itself to her.

"Would you like to come in? I can make us some hot beverages or something."

 _What am I doing? There's no room in there for two people._

 _That's okay. We can squish up into one._

 _Ahem._

Patrick smiled again and blushed a little, eyes averting momentarily.

"I gotta go home. I don't want Sam to worry."

 _Oh_. _Okay_.

"Maybe another time then."

Then they stood there. Neither of them moving.

 _Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me._

"Well, goodnight, Annabel."

"Goodnight, Patrick."

 _Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me._

And then he did.

Leaning in, her breath catching . . .

 _Ooooh-_

And kissed her.

Quick, gentle, sweet peck.

Way back on her cheek, near her ear.

 _Oh._

Then pulling back, ducking his head, smiling bashfully.

"Goodnight, Annabel."

And saying goodnight.

"Goodnight, Patrick."

* * *

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hi, Annabel."

"Hi, Patrick!"

* * *

". . . takes me away to where I always heard it could be . . ."

"Why haven't you tried to kiss me yet?"

Pause pause pause.

Great big giant Patrick Pause.

"I'm not mad or anything," she assured. "I just was wondering if I had said or done something to put you off."

Pause pause pause.

"No," the soft timber replied. "I just got nervous."

 _Oh. Okay._

"I do like you, Annabel," he confessed and she suspected he was curbing the extent of his feelings but she let him. "A lot."

He paused. But she was prepared for it and waited.

Finally he sighed and continued.

"I'm actually afraid of liking you too much and then . . . "

Pause pause pause.

". . . you changing your mind and leaving."

 _Oh._

 _Damn._

"Like Judy?"

Pause.

"Yeah."

 _Okay then. Let's get this elephant out of the room._

"Patrick, what happened with Judy?"

Pause pause pause.

She waited.

Pausy Pause Pause.

"She thought I was a loser because I didn't have a family. Or a good job. She didn't like who I was."

 _Oh Jesus, but why?_

"How did you even get together then?"

Pause pause pause.

"We both worked at Hammonds'."

 _Ah._

"And?"

Pause pause.

"And then she left and ran off to Vegas with the assistant manager."

 _Ah, yes. The one with the side waitress._

"So, what'd he have that you didn't?"

Pause.

"Money."

 _Oh._

"Well, Merry freakin' Christmas to them, huh?"

Pause.

"Not for his wife and kids."

 _Son of a bitch,_ seriously _?_

"Well, you're better to be rid of her then. So you can move on with your life and get some good."

Soft chuckle, surprising her.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

Annabel blushed.

"Me too."

* * *

They kept talking; that was what they did.

Listened to music and talked.

A lunch date here, a night on radio there.

Another week passed.

And Annabel just knew she was falling in love with this man she understood completely.

Yet hardly knew at all.

And she wanted to trust him, one hundred percent.

But . . .

* * *

 **No, I didn't flub up. That's actually the end of the chapter.**

 **You'll see why in the next. :)**

 **And no, Annabel's not really becoming another Ms. Horndog. One, she likes him, two, hormones, and three, remember her mothers midway through freakshow? Yeah, they were throwing themselves at anything that had a penis. So, you know. At least, Annabel's steering herself toward one guy.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, midnightrebellion86, and DinahRay for reviewing! You all are great!**


	24. Betrayal

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Betrayal

* * *

"He might not even _be_ an orphan."

"He might be _lying_."

"He might be _using_ you, putting you on."

"Some pitiful sob story. Ever think of _that_?"

Actually, Annabel _had_ thought of that.

Extensively.

Especially when he had just been a faceless voice over the phone line.

And she had avoided the serious consideration. Wrapping herself in the romantic fantasy of her faceless, musically-inclined suitor.

But now they were face to face, getting real.

And . . .

 _Denver. Hmmm._

. . . it was niggling at her brain, her peace of mind.

So she went to the library and requested . . .

"Excuse me, do you have a Denver phone book?"

"Sure, dear. Right this way."

"Thanks."

. . . help.

* * *

"Hello, Mount St. Vincent."

"Hi. I'm looking for a former, uh, resident?"

"What is the name?"

"Patrick Anderson."

A pause.

 _Is this where he gets it from? Is she is Pausing Pauser too?_

"I'm sorry, I don't know anyone by that name."

 _Oh shit. He_ is _lying. Seriously-_

"When was he here?"

"Uh, sixties, early seventies?"

The voice cleared.

"Oh. I haven't been here that long. If you don't mind, I'm going to transfer you to our director; she's been here since 1968."

"Thanks. Uh, Sister."

"Oh, I'm not a sister, I'm just a novice."

 _What the hell is_ that _?_

"Please hold."

Annabel's anxiety was starting to crank up and she realized she was gripping the phone so tight it was creaking in her ear a little.

She had to wait _forever_ , it felt like.

"This is Sister Daniel Stephani. How may I help you?"

"Hi," Annabel cleared her throat and hoping this new voice would be able to give her the answer she needed to hear.

Whatever it was.

"I'm looking for a guy who used to be a resident there."

"And may I ask why you are looking for him?"

"I just . . . I just . . ."

And suddenly she was overwhelmed with a sense of shame.

Patrick was putting himself out there for her, trusting her with what he believed to be a shameful truth about himself.

And Annabel couldn't even be bothered to give him the decency of _her_ trust.

 _I am an awful person._

"I just want to see if his story checks out."

But she was already in this and she would confess to him later.

"Ah."

Or not.

"Hmmm."

She hadn't decided exactly.

"Has he given you a reason to doubt him? Has he treated you poorly, stole from you, lied to you?"

Annabel twisted the phone cord with her finger.

"No. Well. No."

"Ah. You simply do not believe him?"

Annabel clenched her jaw.

"I want to. I mean, I care about him."

"Mmm."

 _Boy, this lady's just full of interjections, isn't she? I mean, nun._

 _Ahem._

"And this affirmation would solidify your belief in him?"

 _What?_

Annabel was starting to get annoyed.

It seemed like the woman was trying to run a philosophy class on her or something.

 _Just give me the damn answer, lady. I mean, Sister._

"It'll help, yeah."

There was a moment of silence in which Annabel felt like she was about to snap in half.

Then . . .

"What is the name, please?"

Relief that this sly tutelage was over.

"Patrick Anderson."

The nun was silent for a moment and all Annabel could think of was one of the big blackbird-like nuns from the Sound Of Music, one of her moms' favorite movies.

So in her mind, she was sitting in the University of Colorado's North Campus Library talking to a robust, elderly woman in full wimple and habit in a dimly lit, wood paneled study lined with religious books.

And Annabel just hoped the woman wasn't going to start . . .

 _". . . every mountain, ford every stream . . ."_

. . . singing at her.

Finally . . .

"Yes. Patrick Anderson was here. From the winter of 1955 through the spring of 1973."

Annabel blew out an expulsion of breath.

 _Okay okay okay._

"He was left on our doorstep as an infant with a note that said 'Please take care of him. He's a good baby.'"

 _Jesus. Who does that?_

"He was shy and quiet when I knew him. He always liked animals, especially dogs. He would attempt to sneak some of his food out to the strays sometimes after evening meals."

 _And he didn't dismember any of them. Okay. Whew._

"He was also kind to the younger boys. He would sit with them, trying to teach the little ones to read. He would read books over and over to them."

 _That's my Patrick._

"To my knowledge, he was only fostered out once when he was six. His foster father was cruel and beat him and abused him in other ways until Patrick shot him with a gun that was kept loaded in the house."

 _Oh my god._

"The incident was ruled an accident. Patrick was sent back to us. The man recovered. Patrick admitted the truth later and was thereafter monitored closely for possible disturbing tendencies. To my knowledge, there were none."

 _Oh my_ god _._

"He only ever acted out when we brought up the subject of placing him with a family. He was always against it."

 _You think?!_

Annabel realized she was shaking.

"He was discharged from our care on March 13, 1973."

Annabel's mouth went dry.

"Why?"

"He was of adult age on that day. He was assigned a birth date upon arrival because there was none provided."

Annabel's cheeks were wet, though she had not realized she was crying.

 _Patrick, oh, Patrick._

"Would you like me to send you a copy of his release form?"

Annabel shook her head even though she knew the woman couldn't see her.

"No. Thank you. I appreciate your help."

There was a beat of silence in which Annabel wondered how she would ever be able to sleep well again.

"Be kind to him; he is a gentle soul."

"I will. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

* * *

"So . . ."

 _Bite the bullet. You started this thing._

". . . I talked to Sister Daniel Stephani today."

The sun shining over CU's broad expanse highlighted the surprise Patrick's hazel eyes.

And more than a little rising bitterness.

"I'm sorry," Annabel continued on. "I just wanted to . . ."

"Make sure I wasn't a serial killer?"

Annabel bit her bottom lip.

"Yeah."

Patrick's face closed in on itself and his gaze dropped to his hands folded on the picnic table.

"And did she tell you about me?"

Annabel nodded.

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

And then Patrick wordlessly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

It was brown and worn and creased.

He reached in and pulled out a crinkled, folded note.

He stared at it for a long moment.

And then handed it across the table to her.

She didn't want to take it; she already knew what it was.

"Patrick-"

But he was beyond her now.

Until she . . .

 _"Please take care of him. He is a good baby."_

. . . read the note.

"I was a good baby," he stated tonelessly, without even bothering to look at the note. "And she gave me up anyway."

How many times had he sat and scrutinized that note, trying desperately to work out what had gone wrong so early in his life, why he had been abandoned?

Annabel felt close to tears.

"Patrick, I'm s-"

"It doesn't matter," he interrupted, quite uncharacteristic behavior for him. "It was a long time ago. I don't even remember it."

"Patrick-"

Then he rose abruptly, grabbing the note along the way.

"I have to go. I'll talk to you later."

Then he was gone, walking quickly away from her, hands shoved down in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the world.

And Annabel was scared . . .

 _Shit._

. . . he wouldn't come back to her.

* * *

""Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

It was usually comforting. Her online persona. The music. The rhythm of the evening shift.

Tonight it was a fight.

Until . . .

"You were smart to be cautious. You have to protect yourself in this world."

First her heart soared with relief.

Then it sank with guilt.

"I know."

Pause.

"I would've told you if you had asked."

"I know."

Pause.

"But you might not have believed me anyway."

She couldn't think of anything to say to this.

Because it was true.

They sat there, one on either side of the distant phone line.

Then Patrick spoke.

"Will you play a song for me?"

Annabel sighed in relief.

"Of course. Anything."

"Will you play 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel?"

"Yeah, sure. That sounds perfect."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Then quick, before he hung up and she lost him-

"Patrick? Can you meet me here tomorrow evening at six? I want to take you somewhere and show you something."

It sounded like a line and she wouldn't have believed it if someone had told her it wasn't.

But it was true.

"Okay."

"Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Goodnight, Patrick."

"Goodnight, Annabel."

* * *

 **So, now that you know neither of them are perfect little podpeople now, what do you think?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for always reviewing!**

 **Thanks also to** **latinaangel38** **and** **macabrek for adding your support to this story. Whoo-hoo!**


	25. Trust Fall

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Trust Fall

* * *

He met her in front of the radio station on time.

Still him.

Still Patrick.

Face sweet and handsome.

And, she was worried, a little closed?

Or maybe not.

And she wanted to jump in his arms and hug him.

But instead . . .

"Hi."

"Hi."

. . . she just smiled.

Nervously.

"You ready?"

Pause.

"Sure. Where are we going?"

Fleeting smile.

"It's a surprise."

Ill stomach.

"Okay."

And they went.

* * *

They stopped in front of her apartment building.

Shoebox.

Thing.

Whatever.

"This is your surprise? You wanted to show me your apartment?"

Not a rude statement.

Just a confused one.

All this fanfare and dramatic reveal.

For an apartment?

 _No. Especially not this one._

Annabel chuckled.

Or tried to.

But she was too nervous and it didn't sound right.

So she gave it up and turned away.

"Come on."

* * *

The small space seemed smaller with the two of them in it.

The slip of a kitchen.

The claustrophobia-inducing bathroom.

The couch on the right, past the cramped closet.

The bed on the left, so neatly made . . .

 _Yep, look at me. Practically a neatnik._

. . . Moms would have never believed it.

Her stuff, organized as possible in the little space.

And Patrick, well, Patrick seemed to be taking it all in stride, looking here and there with mild interest.

At Bowie above her bed. Queen above her couch.

 _Never had anybody in my apartment before._

 _Well, Jenny._

She didn't turn on the radio as she usually did.

She didn't need any distraction anymore than the silent screaming going on inside her head.

She had to focus and get through this.

She owed him that.

* * *

"Sit down, Patrick."

He looked uncertain and she realized she had probably sounded harsh instead of just nervous.

"Please."

Pause.

"Okay."

He sat.

Annabel grabbed her current journal and took _it_ out from between the pages.

"Okay, I need to tell you something."

And sat down on the couch beside him.

"About my family."

Patrick who now nodded calmly.

"Okay."

Annabel, however, was _not_ feeling calm.

"They're . . . different."

Patrick nodded.

"Yeah, I remember you saying that. Your dad is a double amputee, right?"

 _Among other things. But that's the past._

 _Moms are still the now._

Annabel shifted anxiously, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear.

"No. I mean, they're _really_ different."

Then she handed him the picture.

He took it, glancing down.

Unconsciously frowning a little as his brain no doubt struggled to process her two-headed mothers.

Bringing it up to his face after a second, peering closer.

Annabel's heart was pounding so loudly she wasn't sure that she would be able to hear his response.

But she sure could see it.

His mouth dropped open just a little before he closed it again.

And she thought she was going to disintergrate out of anxiety and shame.

The first hurdle had been her eyes.

Always there right out in front.

He had passed that flying colors.

The second was her family. Her moms, specifically.

She couldn't keep them hidden forever.

Well, she could. But even someone as inexperienced as her in relationships knew that the truth would eventually either out or destroy the relationship.

Or both.

So once again, here she was, biting the bullet.

And revealing the game changer.

Or game ender.

It was a revelation she couldn't take back.

If he was disgusted, even if he tried to cover it up, she'd never be able to look him in the eye again.

And they would be over by the end of the night.

But she knew he didn't trust easily and if she lied, then she would lose him anyway when he finally found out.

Whether by him standing up for himself or her breaking up out of guilt.

So she had to tell him. Show him.

Even if it meant losing him.

Because she couldn't live with herself if she hurt him again.

So she had to show him.

Now all she had to do was wait for his reaction.

Which he eventually voiced.

"Wow. Is that . . . is your mom . . ."

"It's two, actually," she cut in, mostly because she couldn't bear it anymore. "They're conjoined twins."

He didn't reply so she kept going to fill the silence.

"They share one body and have two seperate heads."

He still didn't say anything so she still kept talking.

"It's actually really cool," she continued, having never talked about it in her life before to someone who didn't already know them.

"They each have their own heart and lungs but all the rest of their organs are shared."

Patrick continued to stare the picture as Annabel's flood of 'Mom' words continued.

"They each control the half of the body they're on so they have to coordinate everything they do. I can't even walk by myself half the time but they're so smooth it's practically seamless."

Silence would eat her alive if she stopped talking so she went on desperately.

"They have different thoughts and preferences. They even have different food tastes but only one stomach so they have to eat little portions apiece otherwise they'll get sick. Oh, and one of them can get a cold and the other never feel sick at all."

She went on and on, it seemed like.

And slowly she was realizing that she actually _did_ believe what she was saying.

 _They really are really cool._

 _They're amazing, in fact._

Finally, she ran out of words and sat there, in a new moment of her life where the awe of her mothers completely overshadowed her anxiety and embarrassment of them being different.

 _Whoa_.

At least for the moment.

It might evaporate in a blink when he had the wrong reaction and they broke up.

 _We're barely dating. We haven't even kissed yet._

But maybe it wouldn't. She guess she would just have to s-

"So, you have a dad," Patrick started slowly as Annabel clenched up at the sound of his soft timber rumble. ". . . and _two_ mothers that love you?"

* * *

 **Honestly, at this point, none of you are probably surprised at Patrick's reaction.**

 **I mean, how could you be, right? ;) But I bet Annabel sure is!**

 **Thanks to midnightrebellion86 and declaration of shipdom, autumnrose2010, and brigid1318 for reviewing. You really make my day ! :)**

 **Gotta go back to work tomorrow so I'll see you again Saturday. You may just need a break from all these postings anyway. Have a great week!**


	26. That Old Song

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

That Old Song

* * *

Annabel Margaret Walker was very, very happy.

And free.

She was rockin' college classes.

"Overall consequences of an action means everything the action brings about, including the action itself."

 _Okay, so if I lie and tell Nancy she's rockin' that New Wave haircut, then she'll go out and rock that New Wave haircut and I don't have to feel bad about lying._

 _I think._

She had the greatest job in the world.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

And now, she believed she could categorically say, she had a boyfriend.

Her first real boyfriend.

Who was _amazing_.

Who loved her eyes.

Who accepted her parents.

And who almost surely, most likely, nearly definitely, was not a serial killer.

After he asked, with complete honesty and almost awe, 'So you have a dad and _two_ mothers that love you?', she had felt an absolute, all-consuming wave of relief and happiness and love welling up inside her.

"Yeah, I guess I do."

So big she couldn't contain it.

"Wow. That's amazing."

So full she couldn't stop smiling.

"Yeah, I guess it is."

Annabel Pause.

"And you're pretty amazing too."

Not even when she leaned forward and kissed him.

Sweet and warm and easy and right.

One hand lightly cupping his wonderful face.

The other light upon the wrist of the hand still holding the infamous Christmas picture, having landed there as he had lowered the photograph when she last spoke.

He had reacted simply by closing his eyes and pressing his lips lightly back to hers.

They fit, as far as she was concerned, so well together.

As if their kiss was something meant to be.

Natural. Normal.

And . . .

 _Ohhh . . ._

. . . completely lovely and perfect.

Breaking contact with him after a few seconds, drawing back and ducking her head a little.

Catching a glimpse of his still closed eyes, lips only now registering her gone.

And then he had opened those hazel orbs.

And looked at her.

Some mild form of 'wow' on his face.

And she had smiled.

And he had smiled.

And everything had been alright between them.

* * *

"So when do I get to meet Sam?"

It shouldn't have been a weird question.

And it wasn't.

Except, just a tiny bit, it was.

 _When can I meet Sam? You know, your child?_

Even though Sam was just a dog, Annabel knew he was more than that to Patrick.

He was, and had been, a lifeline.

 _Maybe he's not ready for me to meet him? That's a pretty big step?_

Then Patrick smiled.

"Whenever you want to."

* * *

 _Oh. My._ _Gosh._

The terrier mix at the end of Patrick's leash was just as adorable as described.

Scruffy little brown and white face.

Bright, curious, beady eyes.

Pink slip of a tongue.

Perky ears with just the right amount of flop.

Freshly brushed coat and trimmed toenails.

Happy, wagging tail.

 _Good lord. He's the most precious, perfect thing I've ever seen._

 _Besides Patrick._

Annabel plopped down on the cobblestones, offering an upturned hand to the dog.

"Hi, Sam!"

Who sniffed her fingers hesitantly.

"How ya doin', bud?"

Patrick chuckled.

"Say, 'Welcome to the Easy Grooves Night Shift'."

Annabel grinned and leaned forward just a little, dropping her voice down into her Darling persona.

"Welcome to the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling."

She could have sworn Sam did a bewildered-head-cock-double-take.

A millisecond before his tail began wagging double time and he yipped, lunging forward to begin happily licking her hand and nuzzling her with his cold, wet nose.

Annabel burst into giggles as the eager canine lavished her with unbridled adoration.

Patrick released the leash then, hunkering down on his heels.

Small smile charming and fond upon his handsome face.

He scratched and patted the dog's back as it wiggled itself all over Annabel.

"I told you he liked your radio show," Patrick murmured quietly.

And they grinned at each other.

* * *

Scruffy Sam the Sublime was the best behaved dog Annabel had ever been around.

He walked when asked. He stopped when asked.

He even sat quietly when they stopped to sit at an outdoor cafe table.

Received treats here and there and begged only with his dark, soulful eyes for more.

"He's so well behaved."

Patrick nodded.

"Yeah, he's a good dog. He just wanted to be loved."

 _Don't we all,_ Annabel mused.

But she thought it went deeper than that.

Patrick the Lonely Orphan had sought out a companion.

Gone to an animal shelter.

Picked a puppy that called to him on a primal level.

And then treated him with all the care and patience and grace that anybody would wish to be treated with.

And Scruffy Sam the Sublime was a smart enough pooch to understand what it was that he'd been rescued from.

And adored his savior for his salvation.

His savior finding similar salvation in another being who simply loved him without reservation.

A stray caring for a stray.

 _Oh my heart._

"Patrick," she said quietly, not for the first time nor the last time during their afternoon. "He's wonderful."

Patrick smiled, nodding, rubbing the dog's back affectionately.

"Yeah."

"And so are you."

And then, not for the first time nor the last time during their afternoon, Annabel got to watch Patrick duck his head.

And blush.

* * *

Speaking of blushes, Annabel had decided Patrick had the best blush she had ever seen.

It started at the base of his neck and rose.

His ears turning so red they practically tomatoed.

It was, for lack of a better word, adorable.

* * *

She knew his voice now too. Had started to recognize it after the first few spins.

Knew it well after a few more.

And wrapped herself up in it after that.

Some might term it as a regular man's voice.

Deeper than a female's. Higher than a bass guitar.

But she knew it.

It was just like everyone else's.

But different.

He seemed to think about each statement before he spoke it.

And when he finally did 'Break the Patrick Pause', his words were measured and even.

Not robotic.

Not formal.

Just . . . considerate that someone was hearing his words.

Listening.

Absorbing.

She really liked his voice and she knew a few things about it based the way it sounded and the words he spoke with it.

He was hesitant, obviously so, based on past negative experiences.

He was careful.

He was funny from time to time, so subtly sly a casual observer might have missed it.

But never to a point that he diverted attention to the funny instead of taking responsibility for himself.

And never to be hurtful or demeaning.

Never to make someone else smaller so that he could be bigger.

He seemed to avoid being charming, instead opting for sincere.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

And he really, really seemed to enjoy the sound of music.

"Hi, Annabel."

And her voice.

"Patrick!"

* * *

He was also a marvelous kisser.

Seeming to just revel in her presence.

Her touch.

And touching her.

The long, blond, freeflow of her head hair.

Stroking her face, cradling it in his hands.

The sensitive skin of her neck, only lightly grazed with his fingers, brushed with his lips.

Wrapping her up in his arms, as if he never wanted to let her go.

But he never touched areas of her body that might be "off-limits".

He never even tried.

No 'accidental' brushes against her breasts.

No sneaky fingers between her thighs.

No possessional grabbing and squeezing of her butt.

He was a perfect gentleman.

Who treated her like a perfect lady.

Who, if she wanted to be touched, had to take his hands in hers and guide them where she wanted them to go.

At least initially.

And then, after the first few times of her initiation toward more intimate contact, did begin to go of his own accord.

Slowly, gently.

As if giving her time and leave to shoo him away if she chose.

"Annabel."

"Mmm?"

"We have to stop."

"Why?"

"Because, uh, I'm going to be in a lot of pain if we don't."

"Oh. Why- Oh, okay."

* * *

Besides from the abundance of kissing (not attack-mode-date-car kissing, thank you very much, but definitely not chaste thy-virgin-is-thy-queen kissing either) and relatively light physical contact, Annabel and Patrick spent a lot of time engaging in many different activities.

Hiking.

Music concerts.

Food.

Playing with Sam.

Young love was indeliably stamped across both their foreheads.

And Annabel Margaret Walker . . .

"Goodnight, Annabel."

"Goodnight, Patrick."

. . . was very happy.

* * *

 _A D?! How could I get a_ D _on my essay?_

There were some possible reasons.

Her job.

"Okay, Night Shifters, three am and I'm signing off. Stay groovy."

Her inability to slow her brain on occasion.

"To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's."

 _I don't know, Dostoyevsky. Ever heard of the Vampire of Sacramento?_

It also might have been . . .

"I have to go."

"No," murmured whisper. "Stay. Stay with me. Just a little longer. Please."

"Okay."

. . . all the time she had been spending with Patrick Anderson.

* * *

 **Sappy sappiness with a side of sap, anyone?**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**

 **Thanks to autumnrose2010, midnightrebellion86, and brigid1318 for reviewing!**

 **Thanks also to smclendon for adding your support to this tale.**

 **Let's see what else they can get up to, huh? ;)**


	27. The Snozzberries Taste Like Snozzberries

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Snozzberries Taste Like Snozzberries

* * *

The white Hammond's truck outside was cool.

"Hey, do you think they'd let me drive it? You know, like, throw candy out along the street to the masses?"

The first of many Patrick chuckles.

"Uh, I don't think so."

The white paper hat with the red lettering on it was fantastic.

"Would you like a hat to wear?"

 _Well, hell,_ yeah _!_

"Yes, please!"

Adjusting it jauntily on atop her head.

"Okay, what do you think?"

Striking a ridiculous pose for her Patrick. Who eyed her in fond amusement.

"Perfect."

The introductory video was fine.

"Patrick, I don't want to take a _test_. I want to see the _candy_!"

He grinned and shrugged.

"It's part of the tour."

But the candy making was the _best_.

"Ooooh, look at all those colors! That machine's just twisting and twisting-"

"And then you cut it with _scissors_?! No way!"

It was so cool.

So cool in fact that she almost missed one of the workers pausing in his . . .

"Now, they're _stabbing_ that brick one?! Jeez, who knew candymaking was so violent?"

. . . work when he caught a glimpse of Patrick on the other side of the glass.

Eyes lighting up with recognition behind his mask . . .

"That's Lucas," Patrick quietly informing her. "He used to work the night shift until his girlfriend had the baby."

The masked man shifting to Annabel then back again with a questioning eyes to Patrick.

Who nodded with a small smile.

Earning an impressed thumbs-up while Annabel giggled and briefly snuggled up to Patrick before . . .

"Awww, that one looks like Christmas!"

. . . before being distracted again by . . .

"Ooh, but's wiggly and soft like dough, shut _up_!"

. . . everything confectionary.

And she just loved every minute of it.

"Seriously, I could _not_ count those. Well, I could. One for _you_ , two for _me_ , one for _you_ -"

"Oh my gosh, look! He's folding it like a blanket or something! That's crazy!"

Every . . .

"Wait, it's like just constantly _pouring_ chocolate over the marshmallows, oh-"

. . . single . . .

"Ooooh, she's not going to make it, oh, she's going too slow-"

. . . moment of it.

"Chocolate _what_?! Chocolate _sinks_ , are you kidding me right now?! That's even better than a chocolate _river_!"

"Oh, look, it's a bunny!"

"Bow-tied lollipops?! Oh my god, that's adorable!"

"Two hundred fifty _thousand_ marshmallows?! I can't, okay, I just can't-"

And then, when she didn't think it could get any better-

" _Free_ candy?! Shut _up_!"

Th tour guide grinned.

"Well, it's just the castoffs-"

"Who cares?! It's _candy_!"

And then there was the gift shop.

"Oooh, I'm just buying all this and living in my car-"

Bright and pretty and smelling-

"Oh sugar, oh god, yes-"

. . . just like everything wonderful in the whole world.

 _Okay, root beer candy cane, apple pie candy cane, cherry candy cane, oh good lord, I need them all-_

She _didn't_ buy _all_ of them.

 _Milk chocolate, midnight chocolate, cookie dough milk chocolate, red velvet cake milk chocolate-_

Not by a long shot.

 _Vanilla bean marshmallow, toasted coconut marshmallow, chocolate chip marshmallow-_

But she did . . .

 _Bubblegum lollipop, watermelon lollipop, birthday cake lollipop, very berry lollipop, ahahaha-_

. . . choose a select few . . .

"There's a _discount_ area?! Take me!"

" . . . to enjoy later at her leisure.

* * *

The old lady at the register . . .

"Would you some Cat Butt Gum, dear?"

. . . with her permed white hair and mischievous smile . . .

"No, thank- Wait, what?"

. . . threw her for a loop, for sure.

"Cat Butt Gum, dear."

And really seemed to . . .

"I just love saying that, you know. My Victorian mother would be so appalled."

. . . enjoy it too.

"Wow. You are so cool."

"Why, thank you, dear."

And Annabel never . . .

"Ready to go?"

"No."

. . . wanted to leave.

* * *

She was practically giddy on the car ride back.

Little brown paper bag perched primly on her lap.

Loaded with sugary delights.

Mostly from the Oops Room.

But that was okay.

Because it had been . . .

". . . so awesome, Patrick! Thank you for agreeing to take me! I didn't even know they gave tours!"

. . . so much fun.

"Did I embarrass you, being so excited?"

Hardly a pause.

"No."

Clicking of the turn signal as he changed lanes.

"It was fun seeing so much excitement for something I'm so used to."

"How did you even _get_ that job? Tell me the truth, Patrick, did you win a Golden Ticket from Willy Wonka?"

He grinned.

"No. Sister Daniel Stephani helped me find it and and my apartment and my car when I was getting ready to leave St Vincent's."

Annabel smiled.

"She sounds really nice."

Patrick Pause before speaking.

"It was her job."

Annabel cocked her head.

"Yeah, but I bet if you asked her, she'd say God called her to it."

Her own personal chauffeur didn't say anything.

* * *

"Do you want some? You didn't buy any."

Hat still proud upon her head.

Candy piled on and around her on her couch.

Currently in the process of being sifted and sorted and inspected.

And eaten.

Patrick shaking his head, waving a gentle 'no' hand and smiling.

"You go ahead."

She frowned, crinkly gold and white wrapper quieting in her hands.

"You sure? I got plenty."

He shook his head.

"No thanks. I'm good."

Annabel smirked, returning to her confectionary indulgences.

"No reason to deny yourself now. You'll just taste it on me later."

She decided her sugarhigh had made her say it.

But she also just liked to watch his ears and jawline go so unbelievably . . .

 _Oh my gosh, I love him._

 _And this candy._

. . . red.

* * *

 **Weekend! So I'm posting again. If that's okay. ;)**

 **Okay, so the Youtube channel thecreaturehub recorded their tour of Hammond's. That's pretty much where all of Annabel's tour experience comes from in case I didn't provide enough details in the chapter.**

 **Plus, they're just amusing.**

 **Their reactions aren't as extreme as Annabel's but I figured that would be her. And it would be good for Patrick for someone to just be so adoring of what he considers a mediocre job that he does. Give him some fresh persepctive on himself.**

 **You know, like he does for her. ;)**

 **Thanks to midnightrebellion86, autumnrose2010, and brigid1318 for enjoying happiness and reviewing!**


	28. Oh, That

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Oh, That

* * *

It was a glorious summer, was '81.

Full of warmth and sunshine and life.

It wasn't that she didn't care about the new recession.

 _Money? What's money, har._

And she didn't even know about the men dying of pneumonia in Los Angeles.

She couldn't care less about the baseball strike.

The murders and hostage situations were bad.

But she couldn't do a damn thing about them.

The Sandra Day O'Conner thing was pretty cool.

The fruit fly thing wasn't.

But Mario and Donkey Kong definitely were.

Her job was still awesome.

As was Patrick.

And sex.

* * *

They had talked about it nights beforehand.

Annabel breaching the subject on a whim as they sat listening to music in his apartment.

"Have you slept with many people?"

His mild surprise causing her to blush.

"Sorry. I know that's a private question . . ."

But not making her retract her words.

"But I kind of need to know. 'Cause, well, you know."

Brief Patrick Pause.

 _What the hell are you smiling at me for?_

Before solemning and dropping his hazel gaze to his pantsed thigh.

 _Mmm, thigh._

 _Ahem. Focus._

"Two."

She had tried not to stare.

"Two? Just two?"

Patrick had nodded without looking up.

"Yeah. Judy. And another girl about a year after I left the orphanage."

It had made sense.

Given his emotional history.

And his intense shyness.

And she had realized she sounded extremely judgmental.

So she flipped it around and made her own confession.

"Well, you've got me beat by two."

This had drawn his now silent gaze back up to her.

Her gesturing without self-pity.

"Eyes."

And shrugging.

"Most guys don't like 'em."

He had smiled at her then.

Reaching out a gentle hand to cup the side of her face and stroke a thumb along her temple.

Her delighting in the gentle caress.

"I do."

She'd smiled.

"I know."

Then as his hand dropped away, she'd grabbed it and squeezed it tight.

"I don't care about the other girls, Patrick. They're the past. We're the now. I just needed to know."

He nodded.

"Okay."

Pause.

"And we can wait as long as you want to," he continued, blush threatening to implode his ears.

Pause.

"I mean, uh, if you even want to, uh, with me."

Annabel had burst into giggles then, wrapping her arms around him, hugging him tight. Feeling him hug her back.

"Of course, I do," she replied, dropping her voice down low to a whisper. "You have no idea how much I want to be with you."

Her pulling back, just enough to ease herself onto his lap.

Smiling secretly as she watched his blush deepen and his eyes darken as they always seemed to do when there was any kind of sensual contact between the two of them.

Wrapping her arms loosely around his neck, stroking the hair at the nape there.

Him gazing at her in open adoration, embrace comfortable around the perimeter of her hips.

Her eskimo-ing his nose.

Smiling.

Leaning in, kissing his mouth.

Long and slow.

Him responding, arms tightening around her.

Lips, tongue, seeking hers.

There subtly becoming less room on his lap in which to sit.

Her moving to his neck, to his ear. Whispering in that way that she knew made him all hot and bothered-like.

"Can't you tell?"

Barely discernable reply.

". . . yeah . . ."

* * *

So anyway, sex. Was. _Incredible_.

Well, maybe not the first time.

Even though it had been . . .

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

His voice surreshing in her ear, his weight light on her-

"It's okay if you don't."

. . . not bad at all either.

The thrill of knowing that all she had to do was say the word or hesitate at all and he would stop because he cared about her and was gentle and kind and she loved him.

"Yes, Patrick, I do."

But not wanting to stop. Wanting this. Wanting this . . .

"Okay."

. . . with him.

They had been all wrapped up on her couch in deep kisses and warm caresses.

And she had known she was ready.

Shedding layers of clothes, little by little. Slightly mischievous smile directed at his open, worshipful one every time a new bit of her was revealed.

Enjoying the new sensations, the electrical currents coursing through her body as they advanced.

"I'm ready," she had finally murmured breathlessly into his ear. "Come on."

And started to tug him in the direction of her bed.

And he, eyes lidded, mouth and hands previously appreciating parts of her willing body, had come to a complete stop.

"I don't want you to do it just to make me happy," he had stated in a sincere tone, face clearing and self hanging back. "We can wait as long as you want to."

And she had smiled then, entire inflamed body wanting him even more now.

"But I do want to. Don't you?"

He had huffed a little, as if it were obvious.

"Well, yeah. But-"

And she had gently tugged his hand.

"Then come on. It's okay. It's what I want. I promise."

And they had crossed the few feet to her bed.

And things had . . . progressed.

And it had been good.

All of it.

The before, when he obviously wanted to avoid causing her pain during and henceforth tried to make sure she was as ready as possible.

Which. She. Had. Been.

 _Oh. My . . ._

The during . . .

 _Whoa, hey, there's a new thing there- oh wow-_

. . . which had been good after the initial pinch.

And the after.

Wherein she had snuggled up next to him, the both of them bare together.

An entire new and very eye-opening aspect of the human experience revealed to her.

One that she wanted to explore much _much_ more.

And he had held her, arm wrapped protectively around her, her head cradled into his shoulder.

One gentle hand playing with her hair while their breathing slowed and returned to normal.

"Wow," she finally managed.

She had felt him breathe out a quiet, nervous laugh.

"Is that a good wow?"

And she had giggled, twirling his light blond chest hair between her fingers.

"Yes. That's a good wow."

She had sensed rather than seen his grin.

And felt the slight tightening of his arm around her in an instinctive hug.

"I've never gotten a good wow before," he murmured wonderingly.

Annabel raised up on good elbow and grinned cheekily.

"Welcome to the new world, baby!"

And his face had crinkled up in that amused expression where she had said something he had thought was surprising and adorable.

Or so he had said before.

"I . . . I'm so glad you're here, Annabel."

She grinned.

"Me too."

And then they had gone for it again.

* * *

And again.

And again.

It wasn't _all_ they did.

They still ate. They still talked.

They still went out to movies and walked Sam and sent songs to each other.

They still hiked in and around Boulder.

They still went to their respective jobs and paid their respective bills.

They mostly still slept in their respective beds.

Annabel still went to class, having recently added a second minor in Media Studies.

 _I wonder if I can just work at the radio station and go to college forever. I think I'd like that alot._

But they also had a lot of sex too.

A lot.

 _Oh my god._

A lot.

 _Oh. My. G-_

And it. Was. _Awesome_.

* * *

 **Okay, honestly, this was the most difficult intimacy chapter I have ever written. I mean, I created this child, I raised her. (Fictionally, yes, I know.)**

 **And sex is one of the most vulnerable and private aspects of the human experience.**

 **So there were certain things I wanted to convey here that were very important in regard to Annabel and Patrick.**

 **But it's also _Annabel_ , right?**

 **So anyway, I hope this is okay. I think it is.**

 **Okay, confession over. ;)**

 **Thanks to all my gentle readers. Especially midnightrebellion86, brigid1318, and autumnrose2010 for so kindly reviewing. :)**


	29. More Than You Could Possibly Know

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

More Than You Could Possibly Know

* * *

She wasn't quite sure how she managed to tear herself away from her Patrick and her radio and her Colorado

But she also knew it was nearly the end of summer and . . .

"I'll call you when I stop tonight."

. . . time to go home for a while.

Patrick Pause, heavy even for him.

"Okay. Goodbye, Annabel."

Scruffy Sam the Sublime at their feet, perpetually wagging tail in a stop, head cocked.

Whimper of a whine threatening to break free.

Gazing up at his master.

His master with the carefully blank face.

Annabel, facing that face, own face frowning.

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you'll never see me again. I'll be back next week."

Patrick nodding, not looking at her like he had not looked at her since . . .

"I know."

. . . she had confessed to calling his former nun-in-charge.

 _Shit._

Instinctively, she decided she wasn't going to make a big deal out of it. She wasn't going to drama queen him.

She would kiss him and go.

"Okay, I gotta get on the road!"

Like a normal person.

"Okay."

And when she got back, he would see . . .

"Take care of him, Sam!"

. . . that everything was okay.

"Bye!"

* * *

"Daddy!"

"Annabel, hey!"

"Moms!"

"Oh, Annabel!"

"Darling!"

* * *

"So, tell us about your life, darling."

"Well . . ."

 _Ah, the old Walker girls together again._

 _Well, not old. Not Annabel._

 _No. But we are. Almost sixty!_

 _Well, it's better than being dead, Sister Dear._

 _Well, that's true._

". . . crazy because I mean who would even think that Jefferson Starship is . . ."

 _She's so grownup now, Dot._

 _Not too grownup, Bette. She still doesn't fold her underwear before she stuffs it into that drawer._

". . . -trick we're really gonna have to-"

"Who's Patrick?"

 _Oh sister, oh-_

 _Did you see that blush?_

 _Did you see that look?!_

 _Oh, I think-_

 _-our little girl's in love!_

"Oh, um, well . . . Patrick's my boyfriend!"

 _She's blushing so hard._

 _She looks so happy._

". . . wonderful and sweet and he's so cute, Moms . . ."

 _I have never seen her look like this before._

 _Not even about that Bowie boy, that sing-_

"Oh and he loves my eyes!" Annabel practically crowed.

 _Well of course he does, who wouldn't?_

 _That's what I've always said._

". . . Scruffy Sam the Sublime-"

 _Who's scruffy, Sister?_

 _I don't know but if we wait long enough she'_ _ll come back around to it, I think._

* * *

Jimmy Darling, the Lobster Boy, Son Of Neptune, God of the Sea, was standing in the dimness of his West Florida suburban backyard.

With its worn picket fence and nicely cut grass.

Lemon tree and small outdoor shade table and chairs.

Now awash with pale moonlight, caressed with warm southern breezes.

But he wasn't there.

Not anymore.

Not at the moment.

At the moment he was . . .

". . . thing you've heard is true!"

. . . transported.

They had been in the living room, Jimmy comfy in his chair, darlings on the couch.

Annabel, in true college-Annabel form, plopped on the floor, allowing her mothers the joy and privilege of idly brushing and braiding her long, blond hair over and over.

As they listened to a record . . .

"Vinyl, Moms, it's called a vinyl."

. . . of her radio show.

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

And as he had listened to it, it had hit him.

"Ring me up with your requests, dedications, and otherwise lyrical obsessions and I'll send 'em out on the midnight waves just for you, baby . . ."

Like a sack of decapitated . . .

"Meep, come on, what the hell?"

. . . chicken heads.

"Aw, don't be too cross with him, mate. High prize, comin' from him."

Home.

"Jimmy, have you seen Ma Petite?"

"No. I swear though, Evie, besides hotcakes, her favorite thing in life is givin' you the slip."

The sights.

"Mornin', Jimmy."

"Mornin', Susie."

The smells.

"What's up at the mess tent?"

"French Divine crepes and red wine, Jimmy, what do you think? Eggs and hash."

The unrelenting heat.

And of course . . .

"Wonders! Curiosities!"

. . . the Freakshow.

"A plethora of the strange! The weird! The bizarre! The unusual."

 _Ma never would tell me what a plethora was. Told me to go look it up in the dictionary. Told me to learn to use my own brain and read it for myself._

 _Ma_.

He could see her.

The brown dyed beard. Thin, gray comb-over.

The generous, plump size of her, warm and comforting and accepting once she was cleaned out from the hooch.

The feelings.

All the stubborn hope of his youth, coupled with all the low simmering resentment and rage at his lobster-clawed lot.

The nights when the house was light and they hardly brought in any cash in the till.

The rare gifts of big crowds when the anxious bile in his throat soured his dashing, easy smile as he . . .

". . . oddities, the best on Earth! They'll curl your hair and scare your bloomers off!"

. . . crowed his pitch and dove headfirst into the flickering yellowed limelight his fused hands and his resourceful mother . . .

"Carla seemed awful happy with what you were doin' there."

"Ma!"

"You ought make some money with 'em insteada just pleasin' the contortionist for free."

 _"Ma!"_

. . . had thrust him into.

"Jimmy?"

And he had realized, there in the domestic comfort of his very own home, . . .

"Darling, are you alright?"

. . . his vision of them, of his family now, was blurred and breaking apart . . .

"Daddy?"

. . . by the sudden swell of tears in his eyes.

". . . -shifter Elaine. You know, sometimes our dreams call to us from places we forgot were even there. That's why . . ."

". . . one more year and then you'd be happy . . ."

". . . sometimes that soul ache just needs an understanding melody to wrap up in, help heal it . . ."

And he had stumbled, he had staggered out, mumbling nonsensical reassurances of his eventual return . . .

". . . be sad now, Jimmy Darlin'. Life's just life, son."

"I know, Ma."

. . . and fled out into the backyard.

Now.

With the smell of grill in the air and the soft spring of grass under his unsteady feet, Jimmy Darling knew . . .

"- te changera les idées, eh?"

"Naw, Toulouse, if I get high now, there'll be hell to pay later from Ma-"

. . . that intense longing for a place to which he could not return . . .

"Lavette . . . n'importe quoi!"

. . . even though with all he had gained . . .

"Ah, cool your jets, I didn't say never, did I?"

. . . he would not choose to.

And as Jimmy Darling stood under the endless expanse of stars, owlishly staring into the distant past . . .

 _Ma, you'd be so proud of her. You were right. She's incredible. She's amazing. She's . . . she's . . ._

 _"She's just perfect."_

 _Yeah, Ma. Yeah._

* * *

"Is Daddy okay?"

Annabel looked more than a little concerned.

Standing there baffled in the kitchen she'd taken her first step in.

Bette and Dot stood . . .

 _Where do you think he is, Sister?_

 _Right off the top of my head, Bette?_

. . . next to her, smiling gently at their . . .

 _She's such a miracle, Bette._

 _That she's even here in the first place, Dot._

 _I could have never dreamt such a journey._

 _Not in a million years._

. . . wonderful Darling girl.

"He's just taking a breather, I think. Be right in in a minute."

"How about some milk and slice of cake while we listen to your radio show?"

"It really is lovely, Annabel."

"Your voice is golden, darling."

Slightly embarrassed grin.

"Thanks, Moms."

* * *

"I'm so proud of you, Annabel. And I know your mothers are too."

"Thanks, Daddy."

"And I tell ya, if you had been around back then . . ."

Jimmy shook his aging head in blatant fatherly pride.

". . . you woulda run the whole show. They wouldn't have even known what to do with all your talent."

He inwardly grew solemn and grim for a second.

 _Elsa would have either used her up and spit her out or done away with her for blocking her light._

 _Not my daughter, you German hag._

Then dazzled again for his only, perfect child.

"I tell ya, kid, you're gonna go places."

Annabel rolled her Annabel eyes.

"Dad _dy_."

"No, I'm _serious_ ," Jimmy insisted. "People want to listen to that voice! They wanna hear what it has to say. You reach them on an emotional level, deep down, where they keep their secrets. You can draw them up, bring them toward hope . . ."

He drifted off, realizing he probably sounded crazy and old man-ish.

Knowing, as his daughter stood standing with tears in her eyes, gazing at him.

Ma shining so strong out of that one blue eye.

Ma, but better.

Ma, but not the lush, not the broken, not one step from ruined.

Ma. Early. With hope.

With love. With possibility.

Ma. With Annabel.

He couldn't explain it, couldn't begin to express his gratitude and love and pride for his daughter.

But he knew he felt it.

And that she deserved to know it too.

"I love you, Annabel. No father could ever be prouder of his daughter, of his child."

He wished he could stroke her cheek.

"You're amazing."

He watched her swipe a hand across that cheek, saw her tears, felt her arms as she wrapped them around him.

And heard her voice as she tried to manage what he had said.

"Daddy, it's just a late night radio show."

And with her hair ticking his nose, Jimmy Darling replied.

"No, Annabel. It's you."

* * *

"Annabel!"

"Patrick!"

 _"Ooof!"_

"Sorry, sorry."

Mumbled apologies across a hungry mouth seeking another hungry mouth.

"I just, mmm, I missed, mmm, you so, mmm, much, Patrick."

"Yeah . . . me . . . too."

"Let's go to bed."

"What? It's the middle . . . of the . . . day."

"Well, then, it's lucky . . . mmm, that my apartment is, mmm, indoors."

"Uh, okay."

* * *

 **Parents get emotional sometimes, okay? It's what we do; we can't even help it.**

 **So, anyway, I almost didn't post today because the real world has been working me over a little. Then I was watching a movie tonight about a blogger and I go, hey, I can write! And some people like it too!**

 **Three hours later, here's this chapter.**

 **Ahem, which I'd love feedback on, by the way. ;)**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, midnightrebellion86, autumnrose2010, and brigid1318 for reviewing the previous 'skin-fun' chapter.**

 **See you tomorrow for another foray into the world of Annabel Darling Walker!**


	30. Peace Out, Man

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Peace Out, Man

* * *

"Well, welcome to your senior year of college, Miss Walker."

"Thank you, Professor Himes."

"I see you've maintained a near perfect GPA, 3.9. Impressive."

"Thank you."

"And you've added a second minor in . . . Media Studies?"

"Yes, sir."

A pause.

" _Professor_ , Miss Walker."

Quiet for a moment pervaded the space before she chose to acquiesce.

"Professor."

Still stuffy. Still cozy. And still still.

"So, what do you plan to do with your baccalaureate?"

"Um, well, I'm working at the radio station right now. It's fun."

Stern expression over horn-rimmed glasses.

 _Wrong answer?_

"After college," her better clarified. "For a _real_ job. A career."

 _Oh_. _Uh_ . . .

"I'm not sure."

Folder closing. Hands folded over houndstooth jacketed belly.

"Miss Walker, what have you been doing for the last three years then? Have you been dawdling your time away until you find a husband to support you?"

Annabel felt her face growing hot.

"No."

The professor pursed his little old lady lips.

"Then what are you doing with your English and your philosophy and your media studies? Spending your parents' hard-earned money?"

 _No. I got a scholarship and a work-study. Or is that not in the folder?_

Annabel decided the time had come.

To speak respectfully. Directly. And honestly.

"Finding out I need a new advisor. _Sir_."

* * *

Catching up to her newly appointed advisor on his walk through campus.

"Hey, I'm Annabel Walker."

Bright sunshine.

"Hey, walk with me to my next class, Ana."

Blue sky. White puffy clouds.

"Can I call you 'Ana'?"

Brisk, invigorating fall breeze.

"Yeah. Sure."

Towering Flatirons in the not so distant distance.

"So, your major is . . ."

Purposeful yet unencumbered pace.

"English with philosophy and media studies minors."

A raised eyebrow from the thirties-ish man with the tousled brown hair.

Wearing jeans, sneakers, and a chambray work shirt to his next Open Topics in Philosophy class.

"Ah, trying to find yourself, huh?"

A few books tucked comfortably under one arm.

"Yeah. I guess so."

He nodded as he listened, slapping a casual hand with a passing student.

"Good for you. That's exactly what college is for. Always more to discover."

Annabel smiled.

 _This guy. I think this guy understands._

"GPA?"

 _Ah, yes. The numbers._

"3.9."

His expression was mildly impressed.

"Ambitions?"

 _Time to bite the bullet._

"Well, I work part time at the radio station right now. I really like it."

Storing up the Disappointment Walls in preparation for-

"Fantastic," continued the easy strolling man. "You know, you should always find a job doing something you like if you can."

He chuckled.

"And sometimes you just gotta pay the bills."

Shrugged.

"It comes and goes."

A loosening in her chest then from a battle deemed unnecessary to wage.

"You know, talk radio's coming up in the media," her new college advisor continued as they walked on. "And with your English degree, there's a myriad of possibilities for you if you're willing to work your way up. Radio's got real career potential."

Annabel beamed.

"That's what Dave the Radio Man says."

 _Holy crap, he_ does _understand._

He stopped and turned then, Professor William J. Thomas III, standing now at the steps of the red-bricked Hellems Building.

"Alright, I've got class. You come see me if you need anything. And we definitely need to talk spring semester, okay?"

She nodded.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Professor Thomas."

He nodded, adjusting wide, clear-rimmed glasses.

"No problem, Ana. And call me Bill."

 _Bill._

"Bill."

 _Now that_ is _cool._

* * *

There was this mirror in her apartment bathroom.

Mostly for fixing her hair and her makeup and, less recently, adjusting her oversized heterchromia-concealing sunglasses.

Now when she adjusted them on her lightly freckled face, it was because the Boulder, Colorado sun was frickin' _blinding._

Not because she hated her eyes.

But back to the mirror.

It was old. And streaked.

And not gold filagreed framed.

But something more valuable by far.

Polaroids.

Patrick and Sam, both happy and smiling at her behind the camera.

Her and Patrick, the former curled up in the latter's playful, grinning embrace up at Gregory Canyon.

Her, seated at the mic, headphones enveloping her head, fingers held up in a cheeky peace sign for a toothy photo op, curtsey of Dave the . . .

"To remember us when you're famous, Ana Darling."

. . . Radio Man.

Jenny and her leggings and her best Olivia Newton-John impression.

". . . physical, physical, I wanna get physical, let's get into physical . . ."

And of course, the infamous . . .

"Say 'Cheese'!"

"Cheese!"

. . . Christmas photo.

Annabel Margaret Walker.

Her hook-handed and once-upon-a-time murderer father Jimmy Walker.

Her conjoined identical twin set of mothers, Bette Walker. And Dot Walker.

Smiling. Happy. Forgetful of the outside world.

Filled Merry Merry and Happy Happy and homemade eggnog.

She used to keep it jammed between the diary pages of whatever current drivel she currently had been filling to the brim that she could never, ever tell anyone ever . . .

 _-millions of years ago, right here in my kitchen, dinsaurs were battling to the death right where my hotplate is right now-_

. . . and sometimed just Pepsi-fueled drivel.

At any rate, after the Grand Reveal to Patrick and Subsequent Induction of Life Changing Joy, she had decided it was time to learn to just be.

Annabel.

From Florida.

With her heterchromia.

And her quirky parents . . .

"I've been meaning to thank you for writing me so many letters since I went to college."

"Well, you're most welcome, darling."

"We love writing you letters."

"Sorry I don't really write back, I -"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Annabel."

"Just call us here and there."

"Okay, thanks. How's Daddy?"

"Oh, you know your father."

"Already planning this year's Christmas decorations."

"It's September!"

"We know that and you know that."

"So, what else is going on?"

"Well, I had to get a new college advisor. The old one was a douchebag."

"Annabel!"

"Well, he was. He basically told me I've been wasting my time at college because I like working at the radiostation."

"Oh, well, never mind then. It sounds like he really was a douchebag."

"Ma-Ba!"

. . . who truly just loved her.

* * *

 **Sometimes you just got to get rid of all that toxicity of people who don't believe in you, amiright? Yes, I am!**

 **Anyway, thanks to DinahRay, brigid1318, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing! You're wonderful! :D**


	31. The Truth Comes Out

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Truth Comes Out

* * *

"Hey, you want to meet up and do something tonight?"

Pause.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I'm sick."

He sounded sick.

Voice thick and guttural and heavy.

"Do you have a cold?"

Pause.

"Yeah."

"Well, you better call in to work. People don't want you coughing all over their candy."

Cough.

"Yeah. I did."

And then she knew exactly what she needed to do.

"Hey, rest up, okay? I'll talk to you later."

Pause.

"Okay. 'Bye."

* * *

"And then the egg noodles go last?"

"Yes."

"And make sure they're already cooked."

"Okay. Thanks, Moms."

"You're welcome, Annabel."

"We love you."

"I love you two."

* * *

 _Oh, Sister._

 _Yes._

 _She's nurturing someone._

 _She is._

 _She's nurturing Patrick._

 _He must be even more special than we thought._

 _He must be sick._

 _I can't wait to hear how he liked the soup._

 _I can't wait for Annabel to realize taking care of him will make her sick as well._

"Hey, how're my girls?"

"Annabel's making chicken noodle soup!"

"For a boy!"

"Annabel's cooking?"

"For a boy!"

"She's gonna get sick."

"From a boy!"

 _Oh boy._

* * *

At Annabel's polite knock, Scruffy Sam the Sublime started barking to beat the band.

After a moment, she heard Patrick mumbling to the terrier.

And then his voice louder and clearer just on the other side of the door.

"Who is it?"

Sort of.

"It's Annabel. I brought chicken noodle soup for your cold."

Hesitant shuffling.

Then . . .

"I don't want to make you sick."

Annabel glared at the worn wood grain of the door.

"I'll live, Patrick. Open the door."

Pause.

"I don't look great."

Annabel glared harder and harder at the door.

"You've got a cold, Patrick. I'm sure you look like shit."

Then she dropped her voice into a gentler tone.

"Now please open the damn door? I promise I don't care."

Hesitancy.

Then . . .

"Hang on a second."

* * *

He opened the door and she sashayed in just like Betty Crocker.

With her chicken noodle soup and her crackers and-

 _He stood there, looking guilty._

 _Like he'd been caught doing something wrong._

 _Or somebody._

 _And not near as sick as he had purported himself to be._

 _"Uh, hi."_

 _But she was being silly._

 _She was being-_

 _"Annabel, listen-"_

 _And then_ she _walked out. Some busty, trashy, brunette thing._

 _Adorned only his white tshirt and a pair of white slouchy socks._

 _"Who the hell are you?"_

 _Annabel hadn't realized she had spoken until she had._

 _"I'm Judy."_

 _Pause._

 _"You're that bitch from the radio station, aren't you?"_

 _Annabel found herself smiling._

 _"Yes. Yes, I am."_

 _Then she stepped forward and without warning, upended the entire contents of the container of hot chicken noodle soup onto the cheating, lying bastard's head._

 _And smiled grimly as she walked away to the sounds of his anguished screa-_

"Hi."

 _Well, now that I'm done being ass crazy-_

"Hi."

He did look like he'd been through the wringer.

His hair was disheveled, face puffy and blotchy.

Plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Grey socked feet shuffling around the tiny apartment's space heater.

Space bigger than hers by no more than a whopping one hundred square feet.

And Annabel, scruffy little Sam padding around her sneakered feet, proudly set out an only slightly less delicious version of her mother's' chicken noodle soup.

Bowl. Spoon. Napkin. Water glass.

"Here we go."

Pause.

"Thank you."

Pause.

"What's that?"

Annabel turned and grinned innocently.

"Only the best for the best, right? I brought Sam some Alpo."

And Patrick's hazel eyes seemed to mist over with emotion.

It also . . .

"Achooo!"

"Bless you."

"Ugh, thank you."

. . . might have been the sneeze coming on.

* * *

Patrick had eaten about half the bowl of soup before wussing out . . .

"This is really good soup. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I think I need to go lay down though."

"Go ahead. You need to rest."

. . . and going off to his bed on the other side of the wall.

She covered the soup bowl with a clean plate.

Covered the pot again.

Put everything in the fridge.

And took the dog out for a walk.

"Come on, Sam. Time to pee on some trees."

* * *

When they got back from killing the local foliage, Annabel fed the ravenous little terrier . . .

"Who's a good boy, who's a good boy . . ."

. . . and went to go find her big, strong man.

* * *

Who was curled up, wrapped in his blanket.

Kind of crumpled on his bed, feet uncovered.

And Annabel smiled.

 _Big baby_.

And covered his feet gently.

Patrick stirred as Sam hopped up on the bed and snuggled in next to him.

The man himself smiling sleepily as he caught sight of her.

"Hey."

"Hey. I put the rest of the soup in the fridge for later."

He looked congested. And grateful.

"I walked Sam and fed him too so he should be okay for a few hours."

She could have sworn Patrick's eyes misted over again.

"Thank you, Annabel."

She smiled.

"You're welcome. I'm gonna go so you can sleep, okay?"

Pause.

"Okay."

Watery eyes slipping closed.

"I love you."

She stared.

It was the first time he'd said it.

 _He said it._

"I love you too, Patrick," she whispered.

Then he started snoring.

And Annabel . . .

 _I wonder if he'll remember he said that later._

. . . quietly crept out the apartment, locking the door behind her.

* * *

"The theory of mental causation is when thoughts, feelings, and perceptions bring about bodily actions."

 _So I can be taller just by believing it ?_

"Hey, you're on the Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hey, would you play 'Spirit of the Sky'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Baba O'Riley'!"

"Hey, do you got 'Take the Long Way Home'?"

"You got it, man. Comin' in ten."

* * *

They were sitting on the couch in his apartment, both of them actually being off work on the same night.

Talking and not talking.

Listening to music . . .

". . . joker ain't the only fooooool . . ."

. . . current hits this time, turned on low so they could listen to each other more.

Sam stretched out across them, being petted and scratched gently.

The most content little scruff in the whole world.

Annabel had been waiting.

Trying to find the best time to broach the subject.

She didn't want to corner him.

But she did . . .

 _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Time to fess up._

. . . want to hear him say it, _consciously_ this time.

So she switched off the radio . . .

". . do anything for you . . ."

. . . so she could really listen.

"I don't know if you remember when you were sick and I was over here . . . you told me you loved me."

Patrick was quiet for a moment and she wondered if she had embarrassed him or freaked him out.

Then he finally spoke, gaze focused down on his furry canine companion and the gentle back scratching currently being enjoyed.

"I first heard your radio show at work. It was on the transistor in the breakroom."

 _He's avoiding the question? Weird._

"It was light and fun and had good music. But it also meant something too."

Pause.

"Whenever you chose songs, they told a story. If it was going out to someone it always perfectly matched what they needed to hear. If it was just playing music, it captured the mood of the evening perfectly."

Pause.

"And then you would come on and talk. Your voice was so soothing and inviting and full of life. It was like being wrapped up a blanket."

 _I'm a blanket?_

"Like somebody cared. Like there was a light there out in the darkness. Not a bright, harsh light. A soft, warming light."

 _Oh._

"Especially during the time after Judy left and I was so lonely and depressed. I would sit on this couch with Sam, feeling like . . ."

 _Don't pause, don't pause, don't you pause-_

He paused, as if gathering his words to making sure they were right.

"Well, I didn't want to die. Not exactly."

Heavy Patrick Pause.

"I just wanted my life . . . as I knew it . . . to end."

 _Oh god._

She had suspected.

But she also had just never thought of suicide in such a way before.

 _Oh Jesus._

"But you were there. You were still there. In the darkness with me."

 _What if I hadn't been? What if I hadn't?_

"Playing songs to help keep me alive. Talking to me."

Then he stopped talking and she realized he hadn't avoided her inquiry at all.

"And I fell in love with you for it. Before I ever really met you."

And the answer . . .

 _Oh Patrick._

. . . was beautiful . . .

 _Oh god._

. . . and terrifying.

 _I can't, I can't be all that all the time._

 _And he does sound kinda of obsessive. Like that guy that was after Jodie Foster._

And she looked at him then in trepidation.

The consideration of fear skittering through her mind.

Vanishing in a wink when she took in his face.

His hazel eyes filled with emotion for her.

But not dangerous crazy.

Not crazy at all. Or dangerous.

He wasn't nuts.

He was just . . .

 _Oh Patrick._

. . . grateful and happy to have found somebody to love and trust in the big, wide, lonely world.

If she told him to leave her alone, it would hurt him, maybe break him.

But he would do it.

He would let her go.

He would accept.

Because he was a good, not crazy, person.

That being said . . .

She didn't know she was going to speak until she did.

Quiet and kind.

And a little panicked too.

"But Patrick, I'm not some perfect angel."

With her own hesitations.

"I'm just me. I'm just a person."

And pauses.

"I'm self-centered, I'm boring sometimes."

Revelations.

"I get tired and sick and weak."

Things she wished she didn't have to say.

"I get bitchy and difficult to be around."

But knew she had to.

"I'm not all _that_."

Just so he would know.

Patrick smiled then, so sweet and gentle.

And later she would learn, wise.

He seemed to dare to graze her cheek as he spoke.

Voice quiet and strong.

And calm and confident.

"That's the thing, Annabel. You're just a regular person too. So I don't feel bad because we can both get gas together after five alarm chili and not care."

She laughed then, he smiled affectionately before continuing.

"But you're also all that too."

She stilled.

"And you can never convince me otherwise."

She didn't know she was going to open her mouth and speak until she did.

And then she did.

"I love you, Patrick."

He smiled.

"I love you too, Annabel."

* * *

". . . fill the world with silly love songs . . ."

"This is Ana Darling . . ."

"wrong with that . . . I need to know . . ."

". . . on your Easy Grooves NightShift . . ."

". . . here I go . . . again . . . "

". . . and this goes out to Patrick Anderson, The Candy Man of Hammond's . . ."

". . . I . . . love . . . you . . ."

". . . I love you, baby."

". . . I . . . love . . . you . . ."

* * *

 **Well, thanks to food poisoning, I'm still off from work and finally human enough to actually post this sick fic chapter. Which was written a long time ago, I swear.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and DinahRay for continuing to review. I hope you're still enjoying the story! :)**


	32. Fantabulous Fall Festivities

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Fantabulous Fall Festivities

* * *

"So we've been invited to Jenny's Halloween party Saturday."

Patrick silence.

"It's silly and everybody will be drunk as skunks . . ."

Continued Patrick silence.

"You wanna go?"

Evident rumination.

Sing-song Annabel.

"It'll be _fu_ n."

Small Patrick smile.

"Okay."

Sly Annabel. Creeping fingers up the shirt buttons.

"So . . . what do you want to dress up like, hmm? Like, who did you _always_ want to be growing up?"

Adorable Patrick blush.

"Well . . ."

* * *

"Oh my _god_ , Ana! I _love_ your Ziggy Stardust costume! Like, that is so _cool_!"

"Well, I'd already grown the eyes, so you know-"

"And you brought _Superman_!"

Stage whisper.

"Oooh, he _is_ cute!"

Normal volume.

"That's what I tell him."

Quick cheeky kiss.

"Oh my god, David Bowie hookin' up with Superman! This is going to be the best Halloween party _ever_!"

Deadpan Ana-Bowie with a little more than a glow of delight upon her Stardusted face.

"Somebody alert the tabloids."

And the smiling, slightly blushing, mild-mannered Candy Man of the Daily Planet and Hammond's Candy Factory.

* * *

". . . lady . . ."

It was a beautiful song.

". . . shining armor and I love you . . ."

And a beautiful dance.

". . . and . . . I am yours . . ."

Luke and Laura might have _the_ wedding of whatever soap Ana couldn't remember they were on.

". . . ways I want to say I love you . . ."

But they had nothing on her and her man.

". . . me hold you in my arms for . . ."

On her twenty-first birthday.

". . . evermore . . ."

Slow swaying in his tiny living space.

"Thank you for the supper. I didn't know you were such a good cook."

Scruffy Sam the Sublime contently snoozing on the couch.

"Well, I had a good reason to try."

". . . in your love . . ."

"Do you like the necklace?"

Oh, the necklace, the _necklace._

Little gold microphone and headphones charms with a tiny nameplated A on a thin gold chain.

". . . thought I'd never find you . . ."

Around her neck even now.

"Yes, I love it. Where did you even find it?"

Enigmatic smile.

"You'd be amazed at what you can find in Denver if you look."

". . . come into my life and . . . made me whole . . ."

"I hope it didn't cost too much."

Soft shrug of the working man's shoulders.

". . . wake to see you each and every morning . . ."

"No. It's only plated."

Pause.

"I hope that's okay."

". . . whisper softly in my ear . . ."

"Of course. It's perfect."

Pleased Patrick smile.

"This has been an amazing birthday, Patrick. Thank you."

Foreheads now pressed together.

"You're welcome. I'm glad you're happy."

". . . no other love like our love . . ."

"I'm always happy when I'm with you."

". . . waited for you for so long . . ."

Breathing each other in.

". . . only love I need . . ."

"I love you, Annabel."

". . . beside me is where I want you to be . . ."

"I love you, Patrick."

". . . love of my life, you're my . . . lady . . ."

* * *

She _tried_ not to be materialistic.

She had not been raised to be.

But she _loved_ the necklace.

She never took it off.

She wore it. Always.

Day in. And day out.

She wore it at home.

She wore it at class.

She wore it at work.

She wore it when she was sleeping.

She wore it in the shower.

She wore it when they-

Well, she wore it.

It was a very cool . . .

"Oh, I like your necklace, Ana."

. . . piece of jewelry . . .

"Thanks."

. . . indeed.

* * *

". . . defense, I didn't think that kitchen was big enough to _hold_ the turkey, let alone _burn_ the turkey."

Casual shrug from her unflappable Patrick.

"That's okay. It kinda felt like a Chicken McNugget Thanksgiving anyway."

Girlish giggle.

"What does a Chicken McNugget Thanksgiving _feel_ like anyway?"

Sly Patrick smile.

"Like Sam trying to lick burned turkey through the oven door."

Companionable chuckles.

Followed by another morsel of a McNugget for the Sublime One.

"I love you, Patrick."

"I love you too, Annabel."

* * *

"So, Christmas is coming up."

Driving back from Neil Simon.

"And I usually go home to Florida for Christmas."

To his credit, Patrick not stiffening with anxiety at her again impending departure.

"And, uh, I was wondering . . ."

Deep, hopeful breath.

". . . if you would come with me?"

Him slowly breaking into a thoughtful and pleased smile.

"Really? Yeah, that'd be great. I mean, if it won't take time away from your family. You don't to see them very much."

Annabel shaking her head confidently.

"No. I want you there."

Another Patrick pause.

"Will your parents mind? _"_

 _Oh, you sweet man, I love you so much._

"No. They'll be excited. I've never voluntarily brought anyone home to them before. Not even friends when I lived there. They'll probably start planning our wedding so don't let that freak you out."

Patrick blushing a small private smile she couldn't quite identify.

Before distracting her away with another possible obstacle.

"What about Sam? I've never left him in a kennel before."

Annabel shrug.

"We take him with us. He's small. He's sweet. He's probably less of a mess than me half the time."

Chuckle from Patrick, affectionate kissing the fingers of her right hand.

"Anyway, I'll call them later and work everything out."

Patrick Pause.

"Okay. Thank you for inviting me, Annabel."

Her heart breaking a little over his still appreciation of her consideration.

"Yeah. Of course. I love you, Patrick."

"I love you too, Annabel."

* * *

"Hey, Moms!"

"Annabel!"

"Darling, how are you?"

"I'm good. Um, so, about Christmas . . ."

Quiet on the other end, butterflies in Annabel's stomach.

"Are you too busy to come this year?"

Careful, careful Ma-Da being oh, so careful, she could tell.

 _They really are trying to let me live my own life._

 _I love them._

"No," Clearing of her throat, steadying of her nerves. "No, I'm coming home."

Another pause.

 _Turning into Patrick over here._

"I'm bringing Patrick this year."

Another throat clear.

"If that'd be okay. I want him to meet everybody."

Stone silence.

"His dog too. Sam, remember? He's quiet and little, he won't be any trouble . . ."

The silence on the other end of the line killing her, _killing_ her.

Not that she was giving them much opportunity to respond.

"If that's okay."

Making herself shut up.

And wait.

 _Conjoined twin private meeting, hello?_

Finally . . .

"Why, we think that's a lovely idea, Annabel."

"We'd love to meet him."

 _Whew._

"And his dog."

"So, uh, what does Patrick like to eat?"

* * *

 _Oh sister . . ._

 _She's bringing a boy home!_

 _She's bringing anybody home!_

 _She's bringing Patrick home!_

 _This must be serious!_

 _What are we going to do?!_

 _Let them in, of course!_

 _What are we going to cook?!_

 _Food, darling, what do you think?_

 _Oh, we have to start cleaning!_

 _They don't show up for another two weeks, Bette._

 _Oh my god . . ._

 _. . ._

 _Sister?_

 _Yes?_

 _We have to tell Jimmy._

 _. . ._

 _. . ._

* * *

". . . home for Christmas!"

Jimmy Darling Walker, phone nudged into the crook of his shoulder, shrugged slightly.

"Well, yeah, I mean, she always comes home for Christmas, right?"

His darling wives sounded so exasperated with him he found himself breaking into a bewildered smile as they practically screeched over the landline.

"No, Jimmy, she's bringing home a _boy_ for Christmas!"

The phone slipped then and he fumbled it, nearly driving a hook into his ear with the effort.

"-trick- am - they all are going to sleep?!"

 _Hang on, hang on, wait a second-_

"How many boys did you say Annabel is bringing home for Christmas?"

* * *

". . . eighty-three, Mrs. Farrow."

 _The hell's even going on-_

"Here you go, Jimmy."

 _Daughter's gone off to college-_

"Thank you. And . . . sixty-seven cents return."

 _All the way across the country-_

"Thank you, Jimmy. Oh, by the way, how's Annabel?"

 _Funny you should ask._

"She's fine, she's fine."

 _She's bringing home an entire college full of boys for Christmas this year._

"Oh that's good."

 _Yeah, I guess. I don't know where we're going to put them all._

"You know, she was always such a bright, lovely, little girl."

 _Well, apparently now she's a woman. Don't know when the hell that happened._

"I remember when she used to sit up where you are now, learning to work the cash register."

 _Yeah, good times._

"And now she's a college girl."

 _I know_.

"You must be so proud."

Brave Jimmy smile.

 _My little girl. My Annabel._

"I am, Mrs. Farrow. Thank you."

And he was.

He really was.

* * *

"Okay. I think that's everything."

"Yeah. We might have left the kitchen sink."

"No, I packed it in the glove compartment."

"Alright, Scruffy Sam the Sublime, you ready?"

 _Yip!_

"Hop on in, buddy. And seriously, tell me if you start to get motion sick. I have this lingering desire not to have puppy puke in my car, okay?"

Agreeable wag of skinny black tail.

* * *

Scruffy Sam the Sublime and his digestive system of iron were fine.

Patrick Anderson on the other hand . . .

"Can we stop for a minute? Right here?"

. . . seemed to be having some sort of issue.

"Yeah."

Annabel pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped.

Patrick looked anxious.

"You okay? Is my driving bad?"

He shook his head, jaw working.

"No. I mean, yeah. I mean-"

Then he opened the car door and got out.

Annabel-

 _Don't run. It's just Florida._

-followed him.

"Hey. You okay?"

Patrick, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, was standing, staring the way they'd come.

Face pale in the Colorado December.

Jaw working.

"Patrick?"

It was freezing.

Time was ticking.

The road was waiting.

And Patrick-

"Baby?"

-was stuck.

"This is farthest away from the orphanage I've ever been," he seemed to just manage.

Annabel wrapped both arms comfortingly around his one closest to her.

"Yeah."

They stood there, on the side of the road, slowly freezing to death.

"What if they don't like me? I've never met anyone's parents before."

 _Oh, baby._

"Of course they'll like you, Patrick. You're wonderful, you're kind. You're a good person."

She squeezed his arm tight.

"I love you. You're good to me. That's all that will matter to them. That's all they'll care about."

She stepped in front of him, saw his face lined with age-old orphan fear.

Fear of not being good enough.

Not for his mother.

Not for anyone else ever.

And reached up, just the right amount, to kiss him.

Soft and sweet.

"I love you, Patrick. It's going to be okay. You'll see. I promise, okay?"

His worried greenish-brown eyes trained on hers.

Her mismatched ones.

The ones he said he loved.

He looked deep into them, as if searching for the truth.

And then he sniffed. Swallowed hard.

And seemed to manage a nod.

Annabel smiled confidently into his handsome, wonderful face.

"Okay?"

He nodded again, just a little.

"Okay. Let's get back in the car before Sam hauls ass to McDonald's."

He finally smiled then.

"Okay."

And they went.

* * *

 **Fun little mish-mash of stuff here** **with a dash of heartstrings scattered throughout here for you. :)**

 **What did you enjoy the most?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for so loyally reviewing!**


	33. Meet the Parents

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Meet the Parents

* * *

"Moms, Daddy, this is Patrick."

 _Oh Sister, just look at that_ adorable _boy!_

 _Elizabeth, darling, he's obviously a creep. Look at those shifty eyes. I can't_ believe _he's daring to stare us like that._

 _He's looking at us normally, Dot. One of the first people I've ever seen do it._

 _He's staring at us, Bette!_

"Nice to meet ya, Pat."

Pause.

"Actually, it's, uh, 'Patrick', sir."

"Oh. Okay then, I'll call you 'Patrick' instead of 'Pat' if you'll call me 'Jimmy' instead of 'Sir', how's that?"

"You got it, Si- Jimmy."

 _He almost said 'Sir Jimmy'. Heehee._

 _Don't be so easily bought, Sister._

"Good deal, Patrick."

 _Oh he just smiled._

 _Anyone can have a nice smile, Bette. I still don't trust him. He just wants to take advantage of our little girl!_

"Wow, you sure have a lot of Christmas decorations."

 _And just what does he mean by_ that _?_

 _Sister . . ._

"Yeah, it's kind of my thing."

 _. . . would you just give him a chance?_

"It's really cool."

 _See, he likes it._

 _He's covering._

"Well, thanks."

 _I hope he doesn't think he's bringing that mangy little mutt in our house_

 _It looks perfectly groomed to me._

"Hey, pooch. What's his name?"

"Sam."

"Actually, I've renamed him Scruffy Sam the Sublime, Daddy."

"Well, that sounds like a good carnie name, Annabel. Ha. Good to meet you, Scruffy Sam. Don't chew on my reindeer there."

Agreeable tag wail.

 _Oh what an adorable animal. Maybe we should get Jimmy a dog._

 _Don't you dare._

* * *

"Would you like some more meatloaf, Patrick?"

Marginal pause.

"Yes, it's delicious, thank you. Annabel?"

"Yeah, fork that over. Thanks."

 _What does he think he's doing, doting on her? She can get her own meatloaf, he doesn't need to serve her. What kind of pushover is this guy?_

 _Now you're just being ridiculous, Dorothy Jean. He's being a gentleman._

 _And just look at how much he's eating. Like he's never seen food before._

 _I think it's a compliment._

"Patrick, would you like another roll?"

 _Don't encourage him, Sister._

 _Oh stop._

* * *

"I can't believe how warm it is here. Is it always like this?"

 _Now he's insulting our weather?!_

 _Dot-_

"Naw. Sometimes it's hotter."

 _Why is Jimmy fussing over him?_

"Wow."

"Yeah, one time Annabel and I even cracked an egg on the sidewalk in August. Fried right on the sidewalk!"

 _Couldn't eat it right off the sidewalk then, could we? Wasted egg._

 _What is_ wrong _with you today?_

 _My baby girl showed up with that, that . . . boy._

 _I thought we liked that boy. We were excited about that boy._

 _Oh, I don't know. He's just . . . he's just a_ boy. _With our only daughter._

* * *

"You like The Incredible Hulk?"

"Oh, uh, I don't really watch much television-"

 _Out partying? Chasing girls? Running amok in the the streets of Boulder, are you?!_

 _Sister-_

". . . I'm usually working the night shift at Hammond's."

 _See?_

"It's a candy factory, Daddy!"

 _Now she feels like she has to_ defend _him?!_

 _Would you_ please _-_

"Candy, say," Jimmy their darling crooned slyly. "That sounds like a really _sweet_ deal."

 _Oh good lord, Jimmy, stop._

 _That was_ funny _, Dot._

 _Oh and now that boy's laughing at it. Just trying to get on the father's good side._

 _He's_ been _on his good side. You're the only one here that doesn't like him._

 _That dog smells._

 _Of dog shampoo, Sister. Would you calm down?_

"I have an idea."

Heads swiveled.

"Why don't we invite Lucy over to meet Patrick?"

 _What are you_ doing _, Dot?_

Lucy _will have a much clearer head than you and Jimmy. Let's see what_ she _has to say about_ Mr _. Patrick._

"Hey, good idea, Dot. Why don't you girls call her up and invite her on over?"

 _You're being ridiculous, Sister._

 _We'll see._

* * *

"Aunt Lucy, this is Patrick. Patrick, this is my aunt Lucy."

"Hi, nice to meet you, Patrick."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am."

 _Ma'am. What a suck up._

* * *

"So what do you think of him, Lucy?"

 _Alright._

"Well . . ."

 _Now we're going to get somewhere._

" . . . I can honestly say . . ."

 _Lucy can spot a bad apple a mile off._

". . . he is . . ."

 _Maybe you'll listen to_ her _._

". . . one of the kindest, gentlest young men I have ever met."

. . .

"Annabel really seems to have found herself a good one."

. . .

"I'm so happy for her."

. . .

"And what a well-behaved little dog too."

 _You were saying, Sister?_

 _Oh shut up, Bette._

* * *

 _They're going to bed, Sister._

 _Yes._

 _In our house._

 _Yes._

 _Together._

 _Yes._

 _They could have sex in there._

 _Yes._

 _In her bed._

 _Yes._

 _On our sheets._

 _Yes._

 _That doesn't bother you?!_

 _A little, she's my baby girl. But it's their decision._

 _We could suggest he sleep on the couch._

 _No, Dot. It would be rude and demeaning._

 _It's our house!_

 _They probably already have sex, Sister. You can tell._

 _But not in_ our _house._

 _Dot-_

 _Oh fine. How it your way. That_ degenerate _and our sweet little girl._

 _Ugh. Go to sleep. We can argue about this in the morning._

 _I just can't believe that-_

 _Good_ night _,_ Dorothy _._

 _. . ._

 _. . ._

 _I bet that damn dog is going to shit all in that room too._

* * *

 **Yep, Dot's being a mom. And so is Bette. ;)**

 **That's the cool thing about Dot and Bette's evolution at this point. They complete each other so well. Either supportively or by completing what the other lacks.**

 **If you're upset with Dot, just give her awhile. Sometimes it just takes some of us a while to get some traction. So says IronMan.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, and midnightrebellion86 for your enthusiasm! You guys are great!**

 **Next up, the Grinch and her heart. ;)**


	34. The Grinch and Her Heart

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Grinch and Her Heart

* * *

"Oh. Good morning."

 _What the hell is he doing in our kitchen so early? Ha! She must have kicked him out._

"Annabel's still sleeping. I took Sam for a walk and made some coffee. I hope that's okay."

 _Oh, how sweet of him to let her sleep-_

 _After their night of debauchery-_

 _Dot-_

"Oh, of course."

 _Just look at him sitting there at our table. Drinking out of my cup._

 _That is not your cup._

 _They're_ all _my cups! She who cleans it, owns it!_

 _I love you, Sister. But I'm ignoring you now. That boy has done nothing wrong to any of us and you are just being flat out unreasonable._

"Would you like some bacon and eggs, Patrick?"

"I don't want to put you out."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all. We always make breakfast."

"Okay. Thank you."

"You are most welcome, Patrick."

* * *

"Wow, this is delicious, Mrs. Walkers."

"Bette, please. And thank you. We're glad you're enjoying it, aren't we, Dot?"

 _Aren't_ _we_. _Dot_.

"Yes."

Slightly nervous gaze at the almost glaring Dorothy Jean.

"Well, it's great. I usually just have cereal."

Bette, calm and gentle and reassuring.

"Nothing wrong with that, darling. But while you're here, let us treat you."

A few moments of silence, broke only by appreciative chewing.

"Working at a candy factory sounds delightful, Patrick."

"It's okay. I like it better now that I can listen to Annabel's radio show on breaks."

"Is that how you two met?"

"Yes. She was . . . a light."

Gentle pat of the hand.

"She is that."

* * *

A stern-eyed Jimmy.

A sincere-faced Patrick.

A nearly identical set of graying-haired conjoined twins.

A starkly absent Annabel, still presumably sleeping.

All at the kitchen table.

Large enough for everyone.

But somehow growing smaller by the minute.

"I always said I wouldn't sound like 'that guy' but I have to ask, Patrick."

 _I have to. She's my baby girl._

"What are your intentions with my daughter?"

Patrick, quiet for the briefest span, though not looking panicked, disturbed, or even caught unawares.

Only holding his gaze openly and without flinching.

"I love her. I just want to be with her, take care of her."

Fond expression rising.

"Not that she needs it."

Soft chuff.

Jimmy working his jaw a little.

"You thinkin' of marrying her?"

The boy smiling softly.

"One day. When she's ready. If she'll have me."

And Jimmy . . .

 _Well . . . okay_ _then._

. . . finally smiled.

* * *

"Bye!"

"Be safe!"

"We love you!"

 _There she goes again. Off away from us._

 _With that boy. That precious, precious boy._

 _Changed your mind then, Dorthy Jean?_

 _Oh Bette, yes. Oh, I do love him. What a beautiful soul._

 _I'm so glad you changed your mind. He needs a mother's love._

 _Well, he's got two of them now. Just as long as he wants them._

"Man, I'm gonna miss- Hey, you girls alright?"

"No!"

"We miss her already."

"And Patrick!"

"And Sam!"

* * *

"Okay, how are you?"

Patrick smiled ruefully and remaining stawardly focused on the road ahead of them.

Annabel understood that smile.

It had been a long week.

"I'm okay."

He paused. She waited.

Waited for her Patrick.

"I thought for a while your Ma-Da didn't like me very much."

Annabel nodded.

 _Yeah I thought that too._

"Kind of why we didn't . . . well, you know."

Annabel grinned mischievously.

"That's okay. We can make it up later. You wanna pull over and we can get started now."

Patrick's ears tomatoed right up.

As he drove on.

Annabel giggled and let the scenery go by her for a while.

Thinking back over the past week.

After the initial greetings had been made and Ma-Da had commenced glaring bullets at him and Ma-Ba had doted and conversed like a normal person and they had both pretended to not be internally arguing with each other, something Annabel found mystifying and enthralling, she had just known Hell would freeze over before Ma-Da cooled her melon.

Patrick, ears person-colored again, interrupted her musings.

"But then after that first breakfast when you were still sleeping and your dad asked me what my intentions toward you were . . ."

 _He did **WHAT**?!_

". . . and I told him and they hugged me, I felt like I'd accomplished something or something."

And he had. He had won over the Mother Ma-Da Lioness.

Who had then spent the rest of the week treating all of them, especially Patrick and Sam, like they pooped gold.

A misunderstanding Annabel could attest, from the state of human and canine affairs, was an incorrect assumption.

Annabel couldn't help chuckling, even as she thread her fingers protectively through his.

"They're just overprotective of me is all. Sorry."

He shook his head earnestly.

"No, they're great. All of them. And Lucy. And the Clarks."

Ah yes, Kathy and Thomas.

The newest members of the 'We Adore Patrick' fan club.

And to see Patrick, pleased and slightly overwhelmed during the impromptu extended family dinner party her parents had decided to throw, take in so much positive attention was a lovely sight for Annabel to behold.

The Man of Somewhat Bewildered Honor now spoke almost reverently.

"To have so many people who love you so much. Always there for you anytime you need them. Always care. No matter what. It's . . . amazing."

Annabel's heart ached then.

Patrick had never had that, never experienced it for himself.

And Annabel had never really thought about it, always known it would be there.

Always taken it for granted, she realized.

"Patrick, I love you."

He smiled, squeezing her fingers gently.

"I love you too, Annabel."

And they drove on.

"Wait a minute. What did you tell them about your intentions?!"

* * *

". . . love so fragile and the heart so hollow . . ."

The night was dark, the road long before them.

". . . impossible to follow . . ."

Headlights only revealing the next little bit of what she needed to see.

". . . fragile, I try not to be . . ."

Florida to Colorado. It never got any shorter.

". . . search only for something I can't see . . ."

Happier though, with her man by her side.

". . . together, face to face . . ."

 _He love me. He knows me. He's met my family._

". . . your mountain, stay with me, stay . . ."

 _He told them he wants to be with me. He told them he wants to take care of me. He told them he loves me._

". . . I need you to love me . . ."

Him. Patrick.

". . . I need you today . . ."

Soft spoken, gentle hearted, candy-making, music-loving orphan boy.

". . . to me your leather, take from me my lace . . ."

He was wonderful.

" . . . own life and I am stronger than you know . . ."

He was kind.

". . . this feeling, when you walked into my house . . ."

He was perfect.

". . . won't be walking out the door . . ."

He was asleep.

". . . face to face, my city, your mountain . . ."

Slumped down in the passenger seat.

". . . need you to love me, I need you today . . ."

Head tilted over to the left, arms loose across his chest.

". . . me your leather, take from me my lace . . ."

Breathing easy and deep.

". . . love a man like me . . ."

And peaceful.

". . . walked into your house, I knew I'd never want to leave . . ."

 _I love you, Patrick._

". . . a strong man, sometimes cold and scared . . ."

 _I love you so much._

". . . I cry . . ."

Glancing back and forth between Patrick and the road, she took her right hand off the wheel.

". . . saw you, knew with you to light my nights . . .

And grazed her fingers light across his forehead, skimming his thick, wavy dark hair.

". . . get by . . ."

He stirred then, just a little.

". . . forever, face to face . . ."

Just enough to open his eyes, find her.

". . . city, your mountain, stay with me, stay . . ."

And sleepily smile.

". . . love me, I need you today . . ."

Annabel smiled back.

". . . to me your leather, take from me my lace . . ."

Smooched up her lips in a sweet, little, air kiss.

". . . take from me . . ."

As he gazed fondly up at her.

". . . my lace . . ."

And they drove on through the December night toward home.

" . . . from me . . ."

 _I love you, Patrick._

 _". . ._ my lace . . ."

Scruffy Sam the Sublime softly snoring in the backseat.

* * *

 **Better? I hope so.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for all those 100 reviews, wow! :D**

 **Thanks also to the silent readers of this story. I appreciate you all very much. :)**

 **See you next weekend!**


	35. Not Fiction

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Not Fiction

* * *

Fashion was getting futuristic for some in 1982.

". . . wear skin tight metallic _silk_?"

Oddly stiff and frumpy for others.

". . . powersuit. It's a business thing."

And just plain odd.

". . . red parachute pants, I mean . . ."

AquaNet was positively decimating the ozone layer.

". . . touch-up. The wind's not going to be able to move my hair today."

Though nobody knew it.

"Hand me my Swatch, would you?"

And Billy Idol was just plain sneeringly sexy.

Patrick was starting to grow his hair out a little longer.

". . . mind, do you?"

"No. You always look good to me, baby. Besides it gives me something to hold on to you by."

Everyone has a rhythm to their life, a flow.

And though she was the Darling of the . . .

". . . Easy Grooves Night Shift with Ana Darling . . ."

Annabel Margaret Walker's life rhythm currently was jammin' to the soundtrack of the eighties.

". . . all the way! Rosa-anna, yeah . . ."

". . . ran so far awayyyy . . . I just ran . . ."

". . . think they got your number! Gloria . . ."

". . . -cadbra, I want to reach out and grab ya . . ."

". . . hurt me . . . do you really want to make me cry . . ."

". . . rains down in Africa . . ."

". . . it . . . just beat it . . ."

". . . hungry like the wolf . . ."

". . . chew you up, boy, here she comes . . ."

". . . thing she does is magic . . ."

Even though the seventies always . . .

"What can I spin you for?"

. . . came back to call.

Just another early February night on the waves.

Tunes to spin.

"Hey, would you play 'Takin' Care of Business'?"

"Hey, I wanna hear 'Take the Long Way Home'!"

"Hey, do you got 'Don't Fear the Reaper'?"

"You got it, man. Comin' in ten."

Ads to spot.

". . . get The Dry Look and don't be a stiff . . ."

Callers to chat up.

"Hi."

"Hi, Patrick!"

"I'd like to request a song please."

 _?_

 _Why is he being so formal?_

"What's going on, Patrick?"

A smiling pause if she ever heard one.

"I called to request a song."

 _The hell?_

"Uh, okay."

"I'd like to request 'Laughter in the Rain' by Neil Sedaka."

 _Patrick, what are you- Oh._

"Ahem, okay. Any special person?"

A pleased pause.

"Yeah. My girlfriend, Annabel Walker. She's amazing. I love her."

 _Patrick Oliver Anderson, you mush._

 _Ahem._

"You got it, man. Comin' in ten."

* * *

". . . hand in hand with the one you love . . . oooh . . ."

 _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick._

 _I love you._

* * *

"This one goes out to the one Laughin' in the Rain. Just keep up the sweetness, you."

". . . tell everybody . . . this is your song . . ."

* * *

"Boy, you really had me going, baby! What was that?"

Mischievous pause from the Pausing Pauser.

"Well, it's a special night."

She felt she was missing something.

Not his birthday, not hers either-

"What night is it?"

Not Valentine's.

"This is the night I first called the radio station."

 _Oh._

 _But-_

"I know I was calling for Judy-"

He didn't even pause now just let the name be a thing of the past.

"-but it was the first time I spoke to you."

 _I remember._

"You were so kind."

 _And you were so hopelessly hopeful._

"And then you sent out that extra song because you wanted happiness for anyone who needed it."

 _Well, yeah, baby._

"Even for people you didn't know."

 _How many people over the past year. And I didn't know._

"I didn't know it at the time."

 _There he goes pausing again._

"I was too busying chasing fiction."

 _Hey, I_ like _fiction-_

"But I really was just waiting for you."

 _Oh._

 _Damn, baby._

Silence on the line.

"Annabel?"

Sniffle.

"Yeah?"

Sniffle.

"Are you crying?"

Sniffle.

"Yeah. That was beautiful."

Briefest of pauses.

" _You're_ beautiful."

 _Oh Patrick._

* * *

Then there were the flowers.

A _huge_ bouquet of a dozen red and white roses.

Little white somethings tucked in between.

Delivered to the radiostation in a heavy glass vase she could have used to club midnight prowlers over the head with.

If there any been any.

Which, as far as she knew, there wasn't.

And there was a note with the flowers.

 _I love you._

 _-Patrick_

* * *

". . . hope to carry on . . . you light up my days . . ."

Light dim as she could make it.

Station still and sublime, record after record spinning out onto the waiting waves.

"Thank you for the roses, Patrick. They're beautiful."

Air redolent with the scent of roses.

"You're welcome. But they're not half as beautiful as you."

A lovely, warm blush filling her up with giddy joy.

"I hope they didn't cost too much."

Dismissive pause.

"No. I saved."

 _He planned this._

"How long? How long have you planned this?"

Slightly embarrassed pause.

"Since the day we met and you hugged me."

 _Well, you said my eyes were beautiful._

"I wanted to send them before."

Hesitant pause.

"But I guess I was waiting in case you . . ."

 _Don't say it. Don't say it._

". . . decided to change your mind or something."

 _Oh Patrick._

"I'm not going to change my mind, Patrick. I love you."

Hardly a pause.

"I love you too, Annabel."

* * *

So, all in all, a relatively quiet start to 1982.

A plane crash here, resolved hostage crisis there.

And, of course . . .

". . . record low temps today across the Midwest . . ."

. . .frickin' _freezing_ weather.

But other than that . . .

". . . convicted of murdering two children was sentenced to two life terms today . . ."

. . . relatively quiet.

But then year was still young yet.

And damn near anything could still . . .

". . . see Victor/Victoria?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think I'm ready to see Mary Poppins as a crossdresser yet."

 _"She what?!"_

. . . happen or not happen . . .

"Well, we could see Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice."

"Nooooooo, my moms and I read that book last year. Just no. Trust me."

. . . yet.

* * *

 **Sophie's Choice, dear lord.**

 **And crossdressing actors? My first experience was Too Wong Foo. Just wait 'til Annabel gets to _that_ one!**

 **And I changed the chapter title name. Because that's what I do. :)**

 **So anyway, thank goodness it's February. I was beginning to think January would never end.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, midnightrebellion86, and Gweneth Taylor Plunkett for reviewing previously!**

 **See you soon!**


	36. Soooooo

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Soooooo . . .

* * *

"So . . . what are you going to do when you graduate?"

Hip college advisors.

"Hey, where are you planning to go when you graduate?"

Chatty co-workers.

"Whoo-hoo! Almost time to graduate!"

Overenthusiastic friends.

 _Why does everyone keep_ saying _that?_

 _I don't want to talk about it!_

 _I_ like _where I am! I_ like _what I'm doing!_

 _Leave me alone! I don't_ want _things to change!_

Even Patrick seemed to be in on it.

"Are you, uh, are you going to go back to Florida when you graduate?"

Albeit trepidatiously.

She looked at him.

That face she loved was blank.

Eyes veiled. Mouth closed and thin.

As if preparing himself for whatever declaration she proclaimed.

And she just didn't know.

She had fled, yes, with permission, _fled_ home after high school graduation and a long, accomodating family summer.

Joyously embracing something new and completely different with relish and gusto.

But this graduation . . .

"No. I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it."

She shrugged.

"I know everybody's getting excited but . . ."

Anxiety rising.

"I don't know what I'm going to do."

As she chewed her lip.

"I don't want to do _anything_."

Feeling squirmy and nervous.

"I just want to stay here."

Then she piled herself into his arms, the most wonderful, most soothing place in the whole wide world.

"And be with you."

* * *

She could feel his heart beating.

He was asleep and she was awake and Scruffy Sam the Sublime was nestled at their feet.

And she could feel his heart beating.

Flat on his back, deep, even breaths rising and falling his chest.

Her hand light upon his cotton t-shirted chest.

It was his birthday, his _assigned_ birthday anyway . . .

 _I mean, Jesus, to never really know anything_. . .

. . . and she had tried to celebrate it right.

"Ta-Da!"

"Wow, grilled cheese sandwiches."

"And chocolate cupcakes!"

They had celebrated.

". . . hat on Sam, lemme snap the picture, seriously-"

And celebrated.

". . . you, happy birthday to you . . ."

And _celebrated_.

"Wow, Annabel . . . I . . ."

And now here they were, him peacefully sleeping and her keeping watch over him . . .

 _I mean, look at that face, Sam . . ._

And she didn't want it to go away.

Change.

Become less.

 _What am I going to do?_

* * *

"So, Ana Darling, what's the plan?"

She shrugged, mind half already focused on the night's shift.

"I don't know. Maybe open with 'RubberBand Man'. It's got good pep and pump, you kn-"

"I mean after graduation."

Annabel stopped.

 _Oh, for shit's sake, Dave._

She had, thanks to Patrick, gotten good at waiting.

Dave the Radio Man was better.

Finally, she caved.

"Dave, man, honestly, I'd just love to, like, stay here and spin tunes like I've been doing."

Her frustration was evident, she guessed.

He smiled gently and seemed to consider her words.

Nodding as he spoke.

"Yeah, I get it. And I'll hire you full time if that's what you want, no problem at all."

He paused.

 _You're not Patrick, Dave._

"But you've all the potential in the world, Ana. You've got raw talent and a perfect voice. You've got drive and determination toward what you want. You could go anywhere, do anything. As far as radio goes, NPR's gaining ground all the time. You could stretch your wings, climb up as far as you wanted."

Annabel didn't respond, dreading that he might be subtly trying to get rid of her.

Then Dave the Radio Man smiled and it was real.

"Look, if you want to stay here, you got it. I'll put in the papers and you can Easy Groove to your heart's content."

She relaxed.

"But if and when you decide to go, I'll give you a glowing recomendation any time, just let me know, okay?"

Annabel pretended to not need to wipe away tears.

"'Kay. Cool. Thanks, Dave."

* * *

"So I've decided to stay here after graduation. Dave said he would put me on the Nightshift fulltime."

"Wow, that's great."

The relief in Patrick's voice was exactly what she wanted to hear.

But there was another topic of consideration to face up to.

"And I was also thinking about graduation and, uh, . . ."

* * *

"Graduation is coming up."

Elizabeth Ann and Dorothy Jean were on the phone.

"May 18."

To their darling baby girl.

"Oh, yes, Annabel, we're so -"

Who was all of almost twenty and one and a half.

"-proud of you!"

Who had a job she loved.

"And I was wondering . . ."

And a happy life, so far as they could tell.

"Um . . ."

And about to graduate college.

". . . will you please come?"

And silence fell. Even between them momentarily.

"I know it's a long way . . ."

Before they managed to draw a mental breath.

". . . and I know you don't like different places but . . ."

 _College graduation? There? In Colorado?_

 _That's-_

 _-a long way away._

"I really, really want you to be here. Please?"

 _No. We couldn't, it's too far, it's-_

 _-our-_

 _-daughter._

"Yes, of course we'll come, darling."

"Just tell us when."

* * *

 _Okay, let's see two days up there . . ._

 _. . . two days back._

 _Three days with Annabel._

 _Seven days in all._

 _That's a week!_

 _That it is._

 _Oh my, Sister. We're -_

 _-going on vacation._

* * *

"Hey, girls, how was the day?"

"We're going to Colorado!"

He never even skipped a beat.

"That bad, huh?"

Their laughter tickled his insides, warming him and making him smile just like it always did.

"Jimmy!"

"Annabel's invited us to graduation, can you believe it?"

Jimmy shrugged congenially, nodding.

"Yeah, of course. We're her parents!"

Then he paused, mind actually absorbing what his conjoined wives had just said.

"Wow. Colorado, huh?"

Bette and Dot nodded firmly.

Calmly.

And with complete confidence and determination.

"Yes."

"And it's going to be wonderful!"

Jimmy stood still, mind racing with possibilities and probabilities.

Bette and Dot moved smoothly around the kitchen, finishing up preparations for their modest dinner of chicken pot pie.

Jimmy watched them, unable to see them anywhere but the relative safety and comfort of Brandon, Florida.

Finally, he spoke the only words he could.

"Okay. When do we leave?"

* * *

"Alright, Ted. I'm gonna need you to run the store for a week in May."

"Oh, wow, what's up, boss?"

"Goin' to Colorado. My little girl's graduating college."

"Wow! Congrats, sir!"

"Well, thanks. It's all her, you know? She's always been so smart and a hard worker-"

"Colorado, though? You gonna fly?"

Light snort.

"Oh, hell, no. You kiddin'? I'm not a bird."

He waved his hooks vaguely.

"Probably wouldn't let me on a plane with these anyway, don't ya think?"

Brief chuckle.

"No. Probably not."

* * *

"Lucy, we need you to keep an eye on the house for a week in May."

Baffled incomprehension.

"Why? What's-"

Sunshine breaking through the clouds.

"Oh! Is it time for Annabel to graduate?"

Outright glee.

"Yes! And she asked us to come! Can you believe it?!"

Excited hugs. Happy tears.

"Oh, sweet friends, of course I can believe it. I told you she just needed time to sort herself out."

Kleenex passed all around.

A few moments of sniffling.

"And you know, I think it was also her Patrick. A boy without a family gives perspective to one who's always had one. No matter how different they are."

* * *

 **Ah, yes, the anxiety of becoming a grownup. Happens to us all at some point.**

 **Couple of new considerations here. What do you think?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for always reviewing! :D**

 **See you next weekend!**


	37. Moving In and Moving On

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Moving In and Moving On

* * *

 _Yawn._

"It's too late to drive back tonight. You should just stay here."

"Sam's at home."

And she felt an irritation she couldn't name begin to rise.

"Sam should be _here_."

Begin to form.

"I'm sorry."

Where everything had been okay before.

"No, that's not what I mean."

And then the full and complete knowledge, understanding, and statement presented itself as if it had always been there just waiting for her to sit up and take notice.

" _He_ should be here. _You_ should be here. We should be here _together_."

Boulder.

All the way to Denver?

"Well, we should be _somewhere_ together. All three of us."

Patrick watched her, as if waiting for her to finally say it.

"Patrick, let's move in together."

The man before her seemed like he wanted to smile but wasn't ready.

Hazel eyes alert and questioning.

"Really?"

"Yes. Boulder. Denver. Westminister, I don't know."

She was rambling now, messing the whole thing up, but . . .

"I want us to have a place together. All the time. I want us to live together."

She paused.

"Do you?"

And finally, finally, as if he had decided it were okay, Patrick smiled.

"Yes."

Annabel felt her heart hammering.

"After graduation?"

"Okay."

And then she threw herself joyfully into his arms.

"Yay!"

* * *

So that was kind of it.

She and Patrick were going to live together.

As in, together, together.

As in, a couple.

The two of them.

And Sam.

They would pay bills together and eat meals together and come home to each other.

Like a couple.

She was really, really excited about it.

And also . . .

 _I wonder if I should keep my old apartment just for when I'm on my period._

. . . a little trepidatious as well.

* * *

"Oh my god, you're moving _in_ together?!"

Annabel nodded over her cinnamon roll.

Jenny's face was a myriad of emotions and opinions.

"Are you going to get married?!"

Annabel shrugged, feeling her face turning red.

"I don't know. We didn't really get that far in the conversation."

And she feeling stupider by the second.

"Well, you know," Jenny stated with all the authority of someone who's never experienced a long term relationship in her entire life. "Once you live together, he's going to start wanting to control your entire life."

 _What?_

"Patrick's a good guy, I know," Jenny continued unabated. "But he's a _guy_. They can't even help it. They're genetically indisposed to want to control and dominate."

 _The hell?_

"So when's the move?"

Annabel's mouth flopped open and closed like a fish for a second before she found her voice.

"Uh, after graduation."

Jenny stirred her coffee.

"You need help moving?"

Annabel, a little dazed, found her head shaking a no response.

"No?"

Jenny nodded in relief.

"Good. I don't like manual labor."

* * *

"So I've decided it's time to buy a new car."

 _Am I talking to Patrick now? Hello, operator?_

"Really?"

Patrick pause.

"Yeah, well, used. But new to me."

 _Patrick? Is this Patrick?_

"Wow. Big step."

Another pause. It was his thing.

"Yeah. My car's on its last legs and I don't want to get stuck on the side of the road again."

 _Yeah, unfortunate that was after a midnight viewing of Creepshow._

"Wow! That's awesome, Patrick!"

Pleased pause.

"Would you come with me to pick one?"

Annabel snort.

"I don't know anything intelligent about cars. But I can provide emotional support."

Patrick pause.

"Thank you. That's what I want."

Annabel's devilish side reared its mischievous head and she decided to go with it.

"Oh, well, you know I'll be glad to give you _anything_ you want, Patrick."

And she blushed at the dead silence on the other end of the line.

 _Oh, I snapped his brain._

But she hadn't.

Not entirely anyway.

"Uh, so, are you available Tuesday?"

* * *

She wasn't quite sure how it had happened.

". . . economical . . . very dependable . . ."

But here they were.

". . . fuel injected . . . the hatchback really adds space . . ."

In Patrick's new-well-new-to-him 1977 Volkswagen Rabbit.

Orange.

With leather seats.

All working headlights.

An added radio.

And of course . . .

"Do you think I should get it taken off?"

"No. I think it's cool."

. . . 'Get the Rabbit Habit' decals on full display.

"It was really affordable too. Even for a Hammond's candyman. I think you made a good choice, Patrick."

His smile was hesitant but sly.

"I thought you didn't know anything about cars."

"I don't. But I like it."

Pause.

"Cool."

And that was that.

* * *

"So, Sam, what do you think about the car?"

The words were cooed lightly as Annabel knelt on the parking lot pavement before the brown and white terrier.

Gently scratching his ears as he panted happily at her.

Patrick a few feet away, hands stuffed in pockets.

Expression fond and amused.

Scruffy Sam the Sublime stayed put for a moment, presumably for the scratching.

And then padded forward a few paces toward the newly acquired car.

With its fully working headlights.

And freshly washed citrus-colored exterior.

He circumvented the entire thing, sniffing here and there.

Peering intently, it seemed, at this or that.

Before arriving back next to them.

Tongue wagging, eyes beady and bright.

Annabel crossed her arms expectantly.

"Well?"

Scruffy Sam the Sublime looked from her to the car.

Sniffed the rear tire.

Lifted one back leg.

And peed on it.

Annabel felt her mouth drop open.

"Sam!"

Patrick burst into quiet laughter as the dog continued, unconcerned, to smile.

She turned to the homo sapien male, dumbfounded.

"He's usually so well-behaved!"

Patrick, wiping tears from his cold face, nodded.

"Yeah, he is."

 _Why aren't you more annoyed?! He_ peed _on your new car!_

"He's just claiming it as his, marking his territory."

 _O-kay?_

"He did the same thing with the old one."

And for the first in their relationship, Annabel found herself edging away as the terrier approached.

"You're not going to pee on me, are you?"

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this fun little chapter! :)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, DinahRay, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing so much!**


	38. April Plans Bring May Anxiety

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

April Plans Bring May Anxiety

* * *

Jimmy Darling Walker was a _traveler,_ a wanderer.

Had been anyway.

A long, long time ago.

In his lobster-clawed, free-wheelin', freak-show youth.

A week, a month.

Here, there.

Once, an entire winter in Wisconsin.

Hadn't _that_ just been kick in the frozen balls.

Mostly.

Then with the complete combustion of 1952, the entire world as he had known it had ended.

And then, little by little, with help of his darlings, the slow and sometimes excruciatingly frustrating, painful formation of a new one.

Which was wonderful now.

Here.

In Brandon, Florida.

All over everywhere.

Dead stop.

Thirty-five square miles.

Period.

Save for a five hundred mile plus road trip to retrieve his wayward little girl.

And that was it.

And that was okay.

The world out there came to him now from his twenty-five inch television screen, his weekly newspaper, the occasional cinema showing, and near daily word of mouth of those much more far reaching than him.

But now . . .

"Colorado, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Quite a trip. Thousand miles?"

. . . after all this time . . .

"Almost two, I think."

"Well, I'll be."

"Yeah, yeah."

"You know, the wife and I drove out to Las Vegas one summer . . ."

. . . he was gearing up a whole new experience.

* * *

 _Sister, dear, what do you think people in Colorado wear this time of year?_

 _Clothes, I hazard._

 _But what_ kind _of clothes? I don't want to embarrass Annabel by being stared at wearing something old and outdated._

 _I think it's more likely they'll be staring at our two heads, Bette._

 _Well, yes. But I can't do anything about_ that _, Dot._

 _Would you like to make a new dress for the graduation?_

 _Yes, please._

 _Alright then._

 _But what kind of dress?_

 _Mmm . . ._

"Good afternoon, Kathy. How are you? . . . Good, good. Well, I'm calling because Bette and I need your help."

* * *

 _It's so colorful, I don't know._

 _Well, there are other alternatives. I said if Diane Keeton could wear pants-_

 _No._

 _And if Cher could wear-_

 _No._

 _Then we could surely wear a little color._

 _A_ little _color. This is a_ lot _of color._

It would be lovely dress when it was finished.

All that color.

If they finished it.

 _Maybe we should cut our hair._

 _No._

 _We could dye it._

 _No._

 _Party pooper._

And it was a good distraction, however temporary, from their upcoming foray into The World.

 _Dot._

 _Yes, Bette?_

 _I'm afraid._

 _Me too._

 _I'm afraid this zipper's going to be too itchy._

* * *

The ball she had rolled so expertly so many times before . . .

"Oh my god."

. . . went straight into the gutter.

"What?"

And Annabel didn't even notice it.

"Where are we going to _put_ them?!"

Mild Patrick Pause.

"Oh."

 _Shit_.

"A motel, I guess?"

I _don't have money for a motel-_

". . . though! And I can't, like, ask them to pay for themselves! That would be so rude!"

Patrick seemed unalarmed.

Shrugging even.

"I have the money for a motel."

Annabel furrowed her brow.

"You do?"

Patrick nodded.

"Yeah. I've been saving."

 _Well, I would save too but I only get fifteen hours a week at the radiostation and that's practically peanuts and bowling is one thing but a motel-_

"What have you been saving for?"

Patrick shrugged again.

 _He's going to dislocate something._

"A rainy day."

 _But it's Colorado._

"Oh. Well, thanks. I'll pay you back."

 _I don't know how, I mean I have no mon-_

"You will not."

 _Excuse me, what do you mean by th-_

A gentle hand grazing her cheek.

"I won't let you."

Complete and total emotional collapse into his arms.

Right there.

Right in the middle of the bowling alley.

 _Oh Patrick-_

In lane six.

* * *

And it wasn't just the dress.

Not by a long shot.

It was also . . .

 _Oh, Sister. A cross-country trip, can you even imagine?_

. . . the trip itself.

The planning of the route.

 _Where are the roadmaps for the trip?_

 _Right here in the Colorado basket._

The planning of the stops.

 _Do you think there will be anything interesting to see along the way?_

 _We are not stopping but for bathroom breaks, Sister._

 _But what about the Grand Ole Opry? Don't you want to see Minnie Pearl?_

 _I don't think she's really real._

And the planning of the food as well.

 _I hope the cooler works. Mayonaise and meat? The cheese?_

 _Why wouldn't it? It's a cooler._

And all the little odds and ends accompanied with . . .

 _Oh, we need to have Jimmy take the car in for a check-up._

 _Why? Nobody ever drives it._

. . . a major life event.

* * *

 _Do you think we'll need toilet paper?_

 _I'm sure bathrooms in Colorado have toilet paper._

 _But what about along the way? What if we're out in the middle of nowhere and have to, you know, go?_

 _Oh._

* * *

"Hey, uh, girls? Where's all the toliet paper?"

* * *

"They can't handle this!"

The day of her parents' departure.

An hour and a half out (her parents' time), Annabel Margaret Walker woke in a sudden shock in Patrick's bed, suffering what could only have been termed as a complete mental breakdown.

A panic.

A freak out.

Her boyfriend Patrick, He of the Even Temperment and Pausing Pauser Extraordinaire, bleary, but clearing, expressing only the mildest of concerns.

"What? What's wrong?"

Annabel despondent, blue and brown eyes staring with stark reality and abject horror twelve miles beyond the aged ceiling above her.

"My _parents_! They can't handle the Atlanta freeway or Nashville gridlock! What was I thinking?! They'll never be able to navigate their way back out of whatever St. Louis motel they manage to choose! They can't make this drive! My dad doesn't even have _hands_ , Patrick! My mothers haven't been out of Brandon since they moved there in _1953_! They're gonna get robbed or in a wreck and die and it's gonna be all my _fault_!"

True to form, Patrick stayed calm.

Listening. Waiting.

Thinking.

And when Annabel, exasperated and overwhelmed, stopped, panting, he stepped up to the plate.

"They seem pretty capable to me."

"They haven't been out of Brandon in thirty _years_!"

After a Patented Pause, more logic and reassurance.

"Yeah. But they're coming to see you. They'll be fine."

This didn't seem to help as much as he might have liked, Annabel ploughing on.

"I can't even call them and tell them to stop and turn around and go _home_!" she bemoaned.

Patrick tried again.

"Annabel-"

But she erupted all over herself again.

"Oh my god, Patrick, what have I _done_?!"

And Scruffy Sam the Sublime licked her toes.

* * *

 **Little play on the old rhyme, 'April Showers Bring May Flowers'.**

 **Just in case I threw you for a loop. ;)**

 **And, you know, excitement all around then, huh?**

 **What do you think, gentle readers?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing!**

 **Everyone have a lovely day whether you're traveling like the Darling-Walkers or hiding out in your house like me. :)**


	39. Roadtrip

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

RoadTrip

* * *

May 15, 1982. 6:00 a.m.

Sun already preparing to bake the Florida earth.

And swelter up the air.

Not that they would be around to see it.

No.

Because the Tattler Sisters and their darling Jimmy . . .

 _Ready_ , _Sister_?

 _I_ _was_ _born_ _ready_.

. . . were going on a road trip.

* * *

When he had first seen them so long ago, they had instantly intrigued him.

". . . beauties in one body."

And every day since they had caught his attention in one way or another.

". . . you, Jimmy."

And today . . .

"Hey, you girls ready . . . to . . ."

. . . was no different.

Decked out in a blue flowered day dress of their own creation.

Sensible shoes.

And brightly colored scarves covering their heads, tied smartly under their identical chins.

Dark eyes hidden away behind big, bravely flashy, movie star sunglasses.

As if they planned to drive all the way to mountainous Colorado with the windows down and free.

Turning toward him, smiles light and breezy.

 _Whoa._

He had never seen either of them looking like this before.

 _They look, they look, they look . . ._

"Hello, Darling."

 _Hubba hubba._

And it was all he could do to not rush them back inside to bed and make them all . . .

 _Well, at least fifteen minutes anyway._

. . . late getting on the road.

* * *

 _I really should be driving. I am the man, after all. The Husband. The Provider. The Protector._

He looked over at them then, poor Bette and Dot.

Two timid, vulnerable housewives, so out of their depth and element out here in the wide world.

Attempting to pilot their 1975 Jeep Wagoneer in unfamiliar territory.

And truly saw them.

Dot, closer to him, hand confidently gripping two.

Working, he knew, the gas and the brake.

Attention trained on the road before her.

Bette, further to the left, hand confidently at ten.

Working, he knew, the clutch as needed.

And though he could not see it, astute attention also trained on the road.

The two of them.

Bound together.

Working together, always.

And he realized, double the focus, double the attention of a normal driver.

And double the heads and double the hands of their dear husband as well, at any rate.

 _They even do that thing where I swear they're talking to each other without saying anything._

He flashed back to a time, so very long ago, when they had first requested to learn to drive.

And he had tried to help.

". . . -view mirror again, okay, okay . . ."

And they had subsequently kicked him out of the car.

 _"You're driving us crazy."_

 _Me?_

And he decided at that moment he did not want to chance having to walk all the way home to Brandon, Florida from just past Valdosta, Georgia.

"I love you, girls. You really are amazing and perfect, you know that?"

They glanced over at him, a bit quizzically perhaps.

But clearly delighted and pleased.

Smiling, a fraction of a second apart.

"We love you too, Jimmy."

Then he shut his mouth and decided to relax.

* * *

Atlanta.

 _Oh dear lord, Sister, what do we do now?!_

 _Just stay in one lane, Bette._

 _Okay. And when we do have to switch, remember your blinker._

 _Yes. You watch the signs; I'll watch the road._

 _Okay._

* * *

Chattanooga.

 _Oooh, Tennessee! This is where Elvis was from, right?_

 _I think he was born in Mississippi, actually_

* * *

Almost Eddieville.

 _Where do we go now? Calvert City? Is that the one?_

 _No, Paducah._

 _Kentucky has some weird names._

 _Weirder than Jupiter?_

 _No but at least I could spell it._

* * *

Somewhere the hell out there.

 _Oooh, only seventy-nine more miles to go, Sister!_

 _To_ St Louis _, Sister. We still have almost a thousand miles to go after that._

 _Oh my god, I'm going to kill our daughter, Dot._

 _Wait 'til after graduation, Bette._

* * *

And so the time had come.

The I-75 had taken them all the way to the I-24 and eventually the I-57 and on to the I-64.

Over twelve hours of driving and a thousand miles of road with minimal restroom and leg stretching stops, one measly little lunch picnic in between, and scant few snack stops they had come to . . .

 _My vision is blurred, is that heaven?_

 _No, it's a Best Western._

 _Same thing._

. . . their evening accommodations.

 _What if they turn us away from the inn?_

 _Are we carrying the Son of God in our dried up old womb right now?_

 _No but we have two heads. Which I've heard tell is miraculous too._

And they decided . . .

"Jimmy, darling, would you go in and get us a room?"

. . . that they'd been brave enough for one day.

And Jimmy, glad to finally be of service . . .

"Yeah, sure. No problem."

. . . was happy to acquiesce.

* * *

It really hadn't been . . .

"Good evening, may I help you?"

. . . a big deal at all.

"Yeah, uh, I'd like a room please."

Ledger flipped open.

"Alrighty, let's see . . ."

And now here they were.

"Well, this is -"

 _Not our house, Sister._

". . . nice."

 _That's your opinion._

 _Hush._

And it was.

Nice enough.

The single room with the two full beds, nightstand, lamps, dresser, table, and two chairs was still somehow alien in its average accommodations.

Decorated in various shades of orange and brown.

There was a sink.

"What's this?"

An ice bucket tray complete with cups and scoop.

A clothing rod.

 _These are the worst hangers I have ever seen._

And a . . .

 _We're going to get stuck in there._

. . . full, if somewhat small, bathroom.

With towels.

And soap.

And almost all the comforts . . .

"It doesn't have a bidet, does it?"

"I don't think so."

"Dammit."

. . . of home.

* * *

They put their clothes away.

"But we're leaving in the morning."

"But we're here tonight."

Unpacked their toiletries.

"You brought soap? They have soap."

"Well, now we know."

Called Annabel.

"Yes, darling, we're fine, we're fine . . ."

And generally . . .

"What do we do with two beds?"

"Well, I say we use one for sleeping and one for sex."

"Jimmy!"

 _I personally love that idea._

 _I'm too tired for that idea._

. . . made themselves at home.

Then . . .

"Anything will do."

 _Except more peanut butter crackers._

"Okay. I'm bringing back Rocky Mountain Oysters."

"What are those?"

"Annabel said we would find out when we get to Colorado."

. . . they sent Jimmy out for food.

* * *

The cheeseburgers and fries were manageable.

"These aren't Rocky Mountain Oysters, are they?"

"No, they're pickles."

"That was a joke."

"I know."

The different tv stations . . .

"Hey, it's not I Love Lucy time!"

"I think we're in a different time zone."

. . . were less so.

And though the motel pillows were . . .

"Jimmy, go to the car and get the pillows."

"You brought the _pillows_?"

. . . a complete joke . . .

"Hey, uh, you girls wanna-"

 _Snooore-_

"Oh. Guess not."

. . . they still got along just fine.

"Goodnight then. I love you."

 _Snooore._

Mostly.

* * *

 _This is not my bed._

No.

"Morning, girls!"

 _But that is our Jimmy. How does he have so much energy so early?_

 _He didn't spend eleven hundred hours driving in traffic yesterday._

 _Thank you, Bilbo Baggins._

 _Oh hush. Where are we?_

"Morning."

 _Somewhere between Florida and Colorado, I think._

 _I need coffee if you're going to be this jolly._

 _I'm going to need coffee to drive today._

"We need coffee."

"You got it."

Pause.

"Have you seen my pants?"

 _I love him_.

* * *

 _Kansas City, Kansas And Kansas City, Missouri. Why can't they just admit it's basically one city. That's irritating._

 _So's all this corn._

 _Well, it's just plowed fields right now._

 _Don't defend it._

There was more driving.

 _There's just nothing out here._

 _I think it's pretty._

 _Oh hush._

Very few bathroom breaks

 _We need to go, Dot._

 _I'm not peeing behind a Marlboro sign. We'll have to wait._

"Hey, girls, I need to go. Can you stop next to this Marlboro sign?"

 _Men._

Way too many country and western stations.

 _Wayland Jennings is a drunk, you know that, right?_

 _They all are._

And religious stations.

 _Do you remember when we read Children of the Corn?_

 _Drive faster, Bette._

And a growing suspicion that they would never . . .

 _Where are we, Sister?_

 _Maine, I think._

 _Are you kidding?_

 _Yes._

. . . _ever_ reach their destination.

* * *

And then they finally, finally reached it.

Kanordo.

 _Kanordo? That's just Kansas and Colorado smushed together. What-_

 _Hush, Sister! We're almost there!_

Passing of Welcome to Colorado roadsign.

 _Are we in Boulder yet?_

 _No._

 _Dammit._

* * *

It came upon them gradually.

In a way they didn't notice it really, until . . .

 _Bette, Bette, let's pull over and stop._

 _Why, what's wrong?_

. . . it was right there before them.

"Jimmy, Jimmy, wake up."

Their darling, stirring from his slump . . .

"Whu- what, what is it?"

. . . trying to think through his muddle.

"Jimmy, look."

And he did.

And they did.

And there it was.

A wide open road, momentarily free of any cars but theirs.

Brush and fields on either side of them.

A clear blue cast expanse of sky above.

Whisped with the thinnest tendrils of cirrus.

And before them . . .

"Wow." Impressed murmur. "Get a load of that, huh?"

. . . the risings of the FlatIron Mountains.

Dotted with spring green, flaked with white at the tippy tops.

And their daughter . . .

 _Oh, Sister . . ._

. . . somewhere on the other side.

 _No wonder she loves it here._

It wasn't the wall of mountain it would be.

But it was . . .

"I've never imagined anything like that before."

. . . grand all the same.

* * *

And then, and then, and _then_ . . .

Welcome to Boulder.

 _Sister-_

 _Oh-_

"Hey, girls, we're here!"

 _Oh thank god._

 _I think I'm going to-_

"Are you crying, Dot?"

. . .

"No."

* * *

 **If this wasn't as much fun as you were hoping, well, just wait for the return trip! ;)**

 **Yeah, so I posted all my prepared chapters for this section of the story and then didn't end up with the time/patience/mental fortitude to write as quickly as I had hoped.**

 **Thanks for your patience in the time being. :)**

 **Especially thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for always reviewing. You're a much appreciated encouragement, truly.**

 **Another chapter tomorrow, I think. See you then!**


	40. The Walkers Take Boulder

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Walkers Take Boulder

* * *

Their world, the suburban one in Brandon, Florida was relatively quiet.

"Get it, Jimmy! Get it!"

"Where?!"

"Behind you, the squirrel is under the chair behind you!"

Most of the time.

This world . . .

". . . me! Throw it to me!"

 _Bam!_

"Intercepted!"

". . . tackle frisbee almost as much as they love real football. At least in the off season. But don't tell them I said that."

. . . wasn't so much.

They had awoken early.

 _Where are we, Sister?_

 _College, Bette._

 _Oh good. I always wondered what college would be like._

Nibbled fruit and sipped coffee.

"Hey, you girls want some of this?"

While their Jimmy discovered the wonder of everything . . .

"No, thank you, darling."

. . . bagels with cream cheese.

"Okay, but you're missing out. There's all kinds of stuff stuck in this thing."

Bagels with smoked salmon.

"Look at me. Practically eating sushi."

Bagels.

Annabel, grinning from ear to ear, had giggled.

"Daddy, that's not sushi. _I_ can show you sushi."

And Jimmy, mouth full of something bagel-y had nodded.

"You got it, Toots."

Prompting Annabel into . . .

 _I'm_ not _eating sushi, Bette. There's fish eggs in it._

 _Let's just get through breakfast, Dot._

. . . another round of giggles.

* * *

Then they were skirted off . . .

". . . apartment, but it's so easy to clean, you know?"

. . . to the various parts of . . .

". . . Planetarium. It's so cool, especially the laser light shows . . ."

. . . of the wilds of . . .

". . . Packer Grill! It's named after a real cannibal settler guy, ate people one winter or something. Anyway . . ."

. . . Colorado University at Boulder.

 _How does she navigate all this, Sister?_

 _She's our daughter, Dot. She can do anything._

While Annabel Margaret Walker, their bubbly, bouncy campus tour guide for the day . . .

". . . Folsom Field, that's where the graduation ceremony's gonna be . . ."

. . . chattered on . . .

 _How does she have so much energy? I can barely breathe-_

. . . endlessly, it seemed.

And people. So many people.

People to, people fro.

Some of them, perhaps not so subtly, following the small Walker family walking freakshow.

Staring. Whispering.

Wondering.

And of course they were.

How could they not?

But Bette and Dot Tattler-Darling-Walker had already decided well ahead of time . . .

 _Just keep your eyes on Annabel, Sister. Just keep your eyes on her._

 _And our Jimmy._

 _Yes. Him too._

. . . that they just weren't going to give a damn at all.

 _Dot? They're looking . . ._

 _Calm, Bette. Be strong. Keep your chin up. Our daughter, this is about our daughter._

 _Yes. Yes it is._

At least as much as they could.

"And _this_ , Moms, Daddy, is a statue of Ralphie, the CU buffalo! Come on, let's take a picture with him!"

Annabel turning suddenly, addressing a casually dawdling rubbernecker she had been stubbornly ignoring up until this point.

"Hey, since you're gonna stare anyway . . ."

Shoving the camera at the uncomfortable male sophomore.

". . . come here and take a picture for us, man."

And gathering her parents unto her.

"Just click it a coupla times."

Bette and Dot on the left, Jimmy on the right.

Grinning big and bright.

"Any time you're ready there."

Straight and proud.

And Bette and Dot . . .

 _Oh Sister, she's not ashamed of us anymore._

 _I know, Bette. This is wonderful._

. . . refusing to tear up and ruin their daughter's picture.

Squeezing Jimmy's forearm where he could feel it.

Knowing his dimples were on full display.

As well as his glinting, metal hooks.

Drafted amateur photographer nervously holding up the Instamatic . . .

"Uh, okay, uh, say . . . cheese?"

"Cheese!"

* * *

There was only one bad moment that entire morning.

 _Sister? I don't feel well._

 _What?_

When the shining Colorado sun was too close and too bright.

 _What's wrong?_

And the new and differentness was too abrasive and overwhelming.

 _Help . . ._

And suddenly, it was all just too, too much.

The people, everywhere, so many people.

The wide openness of not-home.

The lack . . .

 _Damn air up here, how does she even breathe, oh god-_

. . . of oxygen they kept trying to draw into their two sets of lungs.

 _I'm going to faint-_

 _Don't you dare. We're not going down in the middle of Annabel's college campus in front of all these people._

And they didn't. Not entirely anyway.

They did, however, sink gratefully onto the nearest bench they could find, clutching each other desperately to minimize their sudden bout of shakes.

Jimmy their darling, handsome face full of worry and concern, materializing in their narrowing vision.

"Hey, you girls okay?"

Protective arm encircling their back.

"Bette? Dot?"

They didn't have words for him-

"Moms? Ma-Da? Ma-Ba? Are you okay?"

But they did manage to find some . . .

"Yes, yes, of course, darling."

"We just need to sit down for a minute."

. . . for their daughter.

Annabel's mismatched eyes frowned her worry and concern at them.

"Do you want to go back?"

 _Oh lord, no. It took two whole days just to get here._

"No. We'll be fine in just a minute, darling."

"Just a minute."

 _Maybe two._

* * *

And they were okay.

They were.

Five thousand, two hundred feet of altitude was vastly different than forty-six feet of altitude.

And though their minds did not know the numbers, their bodies did.

But they were tough, they were adaptable.

 _Sister, our left leg itches._

 _Then scratch it, Bette._

And when they had sufficiently recovered . . .

"Does she, uh, they, uh, want some water or something?"

Dismissively annoyed Annabel.

"They're just people, you idiot."

Pause.

"Yeah, thanks."

. . . they rose with smiles that hopefully looked more real . . .

"Thank you for the water, dear."

"Yes, we appreciate that very much."

. . . than they felt.

* * *

"And this . . ."

Practically giddy girl-child.

". . . is one of the best places in the whole _world_ . . .

Grandly gesturing at the multistoried, nondescript structure . . .

" . . . the place where all the magic happens, . . ."

. . . set there right in the middle . . .

". . . KGNU 88.5, Boulder's first and only community radio station!"

. . . of all the Boulder hub-bub.

 _Ah. And it's above a steakhouse. How does she keep her concentration? Are all her songs about food?_

* * *

Speaking of food.

"Hey, Patrick! Just in time for lunch!'

They _loved_ their darling Annabel.

They well and truly did.

But sometimes . . .

" . . . seriously, Moms, you just gotta trust me and try it! Daddy?"

"Oh, uh, well . . "

. . . she just asked too _much_.

There _was_ pizza.

Which they were . . .

 _Hey, it'sa pizza pie!_

. . . were fine with.

But . . .

"Tell 'em, Patrick!"

Pause.

"Yeah. It's good. If you're into it."

. . . they were slathering . . .

 _That's supposed to go on salad, Annabel._

. . . creamy white ranch sauce all over it.

". . . -um, oh, it's just so good!"

Perhaps chicken once in a while.

"Come on, please?"

 _But pizza?_

Jimmy the Former Carnie . . .

 _Oh to hell with it. You only live once._

. . . decided to stop being an old fart . . .

 _Can't be worse than that chicken mousse thing Bette and Dot made when they were expecting._

. . . hefted a big bite.

And chewed.

Eager, excited Annabel talking around her own mouthful.

"Well, Daddy, what do you think?!"

Jimmy swallowed carefully.

"Well . . . it's spicy."

Annabel practically glowed.

"I know, right?!"

He smiled for her.

 _I wonder if Colorado pharmacies have antacids._

And took another bite.

* * *

She hadn't been able to sleep the night before.

She had tossed and turned, fighting waded blankets and flattening pillows.

The too cold, the too hot.

The deafening silence.

And the fact that her handless father and her two-headed mothers were currently sleeping only couple of blocks away and tomorrow would venture out into the world she had up until now inhabited without them.

And everybody who wanted to see, would see.

Not that it mattered what other people thought anymore.

Or at least not enough for Annabel to admit she gave a shit.

She was more focused on her . . .

 _Wow. I can't believe they actually made it up here in one piece. They really are tougher than I thought._

. . . mothers.

Bette and Dot Walker.

So unique, so special.

So one-of-a-kind.

And she didn't want them hurt.

By the stares. The whispers.

The aura of freakdom other people would be drawn to.

All her young life she had fought back, sometimes physically, to protect her family.

During her teenage years, she had shamefully hidden.

And now, perspective shifted again, she just wanted them to be okay.

Wherever they were.

And currently, that somewhere was here.

She had considered just visiting them in the motel, staying cozied up with them.

Bring them food.

Bring them Patrick.

Shuttle them to and from the graduation ceremony.

And then wave a relieved, reluctant goodbye thereafter.

But that . . .

 _They've never been a vacation before._

. . . was complete . . .

 _They should have some fun._

. . . and total . . .

 _And Colorado is fun._

. . . bullshit.

 _That's it. I'm going to show them a good time._

And so, with mind and heart open, . . .

 _We're going to do everything._

. . . she had started . . .

 _And everybody else can shove it._

. . . dreaming.

* * *

The only problem was . . .

". . . tulips along Pearl Street!"

"That sounds nice."

. . . once she started dreaming . . ."

". . . -ing up at Chautauqua?"

"Yeah. Do they like hiking?"

. . . she couldn't stop.

". . . another tour to Hammond's?"

"Yeah. If they want to."

* * *

And she _definitely_ couldn't sleep.

 _What if they won't let them into the graduation ceremony?_

 _I'll have to sue the school._

 _Might get my student loans forgiven._

And when she did sleep . . .

"Miss Walker, is there anything you would like to say in your defense to the Supreme Court?"

. . . her dreams were understandably . . .

"Yes, Your Indiana Solo Honor. I respectfully declare that the entire state of Colorado was treating my mothers like dirt so I kicked them in their collective dicks and burned the entire thing to the ground in retribution."

. . . if . . .

"Sounds sensible to me, honey. Case dismissed. Bailiff Chewie, please release Miss Walker and present her with this whip as a personal thanks from all of us on Hoth."

. . . somewhat . . .

"Roooowwwwll."

. . . weird.

* * *

So she took them.

And they went.

And they did.

Even after . . .

 _I don't think were going to get our usual_ _afternoon nap in, Sister._

 _No, Dot._

. . . lunch.

Annabel, Patrick in tow, headed them right up Pearl Street.

Where they window-shopped . . .

". . . best records in there . . ."

. . . did indeed enjoy the tulips . . .

 _Oh how lovely._

 _. . ._ and in general . . .

 _Maybe we're not the only freaks here, Sister._

. . . took all the ambiance of a very active Pearl Street.

 _It would seem so._

* * *

Which for the afternoon included a few interesting sights.

"Is it like this everyday?"

"Well, not always, but it's graduation week so yeah . . ."

A tall man folding himself into small, see through box.

 _Hey, a contortionist! I remember this one time, Lucille . . ._

A guy perilously weaving in and out of crowds on a ten foot unicycle.

 _If he slips, he's gonna lose his balls._

A fella whose game appeared to be numbers . . .

". . . any zip code anywhere, just give me the city and state . . ."

 _Regular carnival out here. Elsa'd be in Heaven._

And a baffling piano player hanging upside from a tree, baby grand set on the ground in front of her.

 _Oh boy, Evie never thought of that one. Can you even imagine-_

And on and on.

* * *

They hadn't fallen asleep in their Ramen noodles.

". . . something at your apartment, perhaps, darling?"

"Uh, okay. Um . . ."

Not exactly.

But, sitting on Annabel's couch next to Jimmy . . .

 _Does she really eat this?_

 _She says she does._

Annabel crosslegged on her bed, Patrick perched next to her, expression vaguely guilty, as if he knew they knew he and Annabel had sex on it.

 _These noodles taste like hot water._

 _Well, she is a college student._

 _Not after tomorrow._

They felt the weariness start to take them down.

 _Sister?_

 _Mmm . . ._

 _We're about to spill ramen noodle on ourselves._

 _Oh._

* * *

And then they went back to the Motel 6. . .

"Hey, you girls wanna . . ."

 _Snnoorre-_

And slept there.

* * *

 **Whew, I'm just about tired reading that chapter! But Annabel really wanted to swing for the fence so there we are.**

 **Did you enjoy it?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for coming back and reviewing! I really appreciate you all. :D**

 **See you again tomorrow for graduation day!**


	41. Pomp and - Whatever

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Pomp and - Whatever

* * *

 _College._

 _My little girl is graduating college, Ma._

 _College._

 _Can you believe it?_

Jimmy Darling Walker was sitting next to his beautiful wives.

In an arena full of people.

People staring and pretending to not stare.

Whispering and pretending not to whisper.

And he just didn't care anymore.

Because his daughter, his little Annabel, was down there.

Somewhere.

In the . . . west field, yeah.

Lost in a sea of black and white gowns.

Black caps.

Some with . . .

"Look, Daddy!"

She had showed it to him privately that morning.

"What do you think?"

 _Lv u, Moms._

"I mean, I'm not cutting you out but-"

"No, no, Annabel. It's perfect. They'll love it."

And they would.

"Look, Moms!"

"Oh, Annabel!"

"Oh, darling!"

And they did.

. . . white lettering on them.

So she was somewhere down there and they were up here.

On hard, unforgiving . .

 _Oh. My ass._

. . . bleacher seats.

And. It. Was. _Freezing_.

Well, not freezing, he guessed. Not really.

Sixty-five degrees in the rising sun at nine am in the Colorado mountains wasn't really freezing, he supposed.

Not like Wisconsin had been.

But it still wasn't . . .

 _There really isn't that much air up here, is there?_

. . . Florida.

Jimmy shifted, feeling all of his fifty-five years and determined not to admit it.

Bette and Dot, his beautiful, amazing wives were beside him.

Tears standing in their eyes.

Proud smiles etching their lined faces.

He carefully angled a hooked arm around them . . .

 _I wish I could touch them with my hands . . ._

. . . in a protective, bonded gesture.

 _I love you girls._

And listened to the speaker drone on and on . . .

". . . momentous day . . ."

. . . about something dignified and important.

* * *

Patrick was there for the hour and a half program, of course.

"Darling, good morning!"

"Good morning."

Having met them by the entrance to Folsom Field 7 at seven-fifteen just as arranged.

Recieving yet another warm hug and cheek kisses from Bette and Dot . . .

"Have you slept?"

"A little. I'll sleep later. This is important."

And shaking a proffered hook whilst exchanging friendly smiles with Jimmy.

"Well, we're glad you're here. Honestly, I don't have any idea what the hell we're doing."

"It's okay. We'll figure it out together."

And of course, Annabel . . .

"Hey, CandyMan! Gimme some sugar!"

. . . being Annabel.

Kissing Patrick, perhaps a bit more reservedly than usual in respect to her parents.

Not that the fawn-faced man seemed to mind, to all appearances.

"Hey, Annabel."

* * *

After some run-of-the-mill confusion . . .

"So you'll need, uh . . ."

"Four tickets, please. Since there are four of us, as you can see."

. . . security had let them in . . .

"Okay. Uh, well, enjoy the ceremony."

"Thank you, sir."

. . . after a good bit of wandering . . .

". . . here, but sun'll be in our eyes . . ."

"Well, I wanted to be able to se everything."

. . . they had found their seats . . .

". . . bleachers are cold!"

"Would you like to sit on my jacket?"

"Oh, Patrick, how sweet. We'll manage."

. . . and settled themselves in for the long, patient hour wait for the commencement to, well, commence.

"Hey, look at that mountain view, huh? Pretty impressive, eh?"

Patrick protectively positioned . . .

"It's just lovely. I can see why she likes it here."

. . . next to Bette.

"We can take a drive later and look at it if you want, Mrs. Walker."

"Ooh, that'd be nice! Dot? Jimmy?"

"Sure. As long as I don't have to do the drivin'."

And Jimmy next to Dot.

The men flanking the women who cared for them, all focused, all ready and waiting.

For the lovely young woman.

Who had triumphed. Who had succeeded.

More than they knew.

With Annabel gusto and aplomb.

* * *

There was the processional, wherein all the graduating students walked onto the field.

Very, very . . .

 _Oh, Sister. There's so many!_

 _Where is Annabel?_

 _I have no idea. But she's there. She knows what she's doing._

 _I hope so._

. . . _very_ slowly in rows of two.

The presentation of the colors.

 _Black and gold and_ _silver? Seems a little stark._

The national anthem.

 _Oh, we know this one!_

The recitation of the alma mater.

 _Oh, I'm lost again._

Welcome and remarks from the college president.

 _Who's he?_

 _The one that makes all the money._

 _Oh. That's nice._

The first and the second student speaker, neither of which were their dear daughter.

 _Can you imagine Annabel? 'Alright, you people!'"_

 _Oh, I would cheer._

The administration of oaths.

 _What are they doing?_

 _Trying to make them be scared of their jobs, I think._

The conferring of the degrees.

 _There she is!_

 _And there she goes._

 _Well, that was quick._

The presentation of the colleges.

 _I thought this was one college._

 _I think they mean different studies?_

The closing remarks.

 _Oh my lord, they're talking again._

Another speaker.

 _Sister, we might die here._

 _Possibly._

The school song.

 _They should change it to something by Neal Simon._

 _Annabel would say Bowie._

And the recessional.

 _There she goes again._

 _Well, I guess we can go too._

 _Yes._

 _. . ._

 _Bette? Our legs are numb._

 _Oh._

And then it was over.

* * *

And they did take their drive.

Eventually.

After the initial . . .

"Hey! There's the college graduate!"

"Daddy!"

"Oh, Annabel, were so proud of you!"

"Thanks, Moms! Moms, Daddy, this is my advisor, Professor Thomas."

"Bill, Annabel. Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Walkers. Annabel's a fantastic young lady. Although I'm sure you already know that."

"Yeah, yeah, we're real proud."

"Oh my god, Annabel! Look, we're finally fr- oh my _god . . ."_

"Hey, Jenny!"

"Oh my god, you didn't tell me you . . . you . . ."

"Had Jane Fonda for mothers, dear?"

"Ahahaha, uh, yeah, uh, oh they're funny too, ahahaha . . . uh, I gotta go, uh . . ."

"Sorry, Annabel, I just . . ."

"No, it's okay, she's been workin' my nerves anyway."

. . . post graduation hysteria.

* * *

First they had lunch, Annabel seeming to be a bottomless pit of stress . . .

 _What is this now?_

 _I think it's tofu._

 _What's tofu?_

 _I don't know. Just keep chewing._

. . . eating.

* * *

And finally they went for their previously promised drive.

" . . . on the run, baby, if that's the way you want it, baby . . ."

The mountain road curving gently this way and that, so soothing after . . .

". . . 1982!"

"Whoooo!"

. . . such a big, brusque, overwhelming morning.

". . . -gether in perfect harmony . . ."

Road humming beneath their wheels . . .

". . . us all with the eye . . . of the tiger . . ."

. . . as Patrick smoothly piloted his Walker-laden Rabbit through the FlatIrons.

Jimmy riding shotgun next to him.

". . . love a rainy night . . ."

Annabel Margaret Walker, college graduate and now finally completely a grownup . . .

"Sit with me, Moms. I'm having a post-graduation breakdown."

". . baby, make it hurt so good . . ."

. . . cradled in the back . . .

"Are you okay, Annabel?"

With her mothers.

". . . of the moment . . ."

"Yeah. I just need my moms."

Head on Dot's shoulder.

"Of course, darling."

". . . goes on . . . long after the thrill of livin' is gone . . ."

Both of their hands gently caressing her arm wrapped around their waist.

Staring out the window.

". . . nights are better . . . now that we're here together . . ."

Quiet. And still.

Radio low.

". . . -ways on my mind . . ."

Letting the world peacefully go by.

 _How lovely, Bette._

 _Yes, Dot._

 _And our daughter._

 _Oh yes._

 _And Jimmy._

 _Yes._

 _I think Patrick is lovely too._

 _Yes. He is._

 _You're lovely, Sister. I love you._

 _I love you too._

* * *

 **Okay, Annabel's graduated! Now all that's left is the student loans. Boo.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing! *hugs***

 **See you tomorrow for a day in Denver. Well, kinda.**


	42. Levity

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Levity

* * *

Another field trip for the Walkers.

All the way . . .

". . . gonna love it!"

. . . to Denver.

". . . truck so cool?!"

More hats.

". . . you, Daddy!"

 _Oh my lord, Sister-_

". . . I look, girls?"

 _It's lopsided._

 _It's cheeky._

 _There's his dimples!_

 _Oh, quick, take a picture!_

"You look wonderful, Jimmy! Say 'cheese'!"

"Cheese!"

And more . . .

 _This is his job?_

 _Why, Sister, can you even imagine-_

 _Never in a million years, Dot._

. . . candy.

 _It's almost like magic, isn't it?_

 _Magic. And a whole lot of sugar and corn syrup._

* * *

 _Man, I could eat everything in this store._

 _What is_ that _?_

 _Is that, is that . . . Christmas candy?!_

 _Man, I like Christmas._

 _We could get some of that candy and use it to decorate the-_

". . . Daddy?"

"Huh?"

* * *

"So what do you do here, Patrick?"

Patrick Pause complete with shrug.

"A little of everything, I guess. More now that I'm with Annabel. I used to just box it."

He grinned shyly, continuing.

"I guess she makes she makes me think I can do more."

 _Oh, Sister._

* * *

It had been a little of a potentially rocky start.

"Oh, I remember you!"

Chipper greeting.

"And Patrick too! Welcome ba-"

Followed by stunned wide-eyed silence followed by an open fish-mouthed gawking fumbled into a weak save.

"Oh. You . . . brought . . . friends."

Annabel refused to shrink.

"Yep. My parents. And we'd like the tour, please."

Awkward stroke-level controlled societal strain.

"Oh-h-h, okay. Um, so that's, uh . . ."

"Five tickets, yeah."

"And five hats!"

And now here they were.

Perusing the candymaking. Wondering at the sugar-filled magic.

Pausing on the other side of the glass to watch one of the workers counting devilishly delicious delights.

Fore and middle fingers of his right hand pointing in a V toward his held tray.

Two, four, six, eight.

Chocolatey confectionaries in sets of two.

Pairs.

Twos.

Twos.

Twos, twos, twos.

Glancing up, catching sight of the Tattler Twins.

Glancing down to continue coun-

Pausing.

And blinking.

Looking back up.

Ma-Da's affect flattening.

Ma-Ba seeming to catch her breath.

 _Shit. Moms, it's okay, it's-_

Annabel's jaw dropping as sly smiles suddenly formed on her mothers' identical, yet individual, faces.

Ma-Da's hand rising into a twiddly, quirky, playful wave.

As . . .

 _Oh my god-_

. . . Ma-Ba's rose to cover her own stifle of girlish giggles.

 _-did they just make another conjoined joke?!_

Then they sashayed off, looping arms through their males companions'.

Four hats askew, the air redolent with the smell of candied mischeivousness.

Annabel following, almost as bewildered as the owlish and confused worker.

 _What the hell?_

Still holding his tray of treats.

* * *

 _Alright, what should we buy?_

 _Everything._

 _You're no help._

"Jimmy, what should we buy?"

"Everything."

See?

 _Oh hush._

"Annabel?"

"Everything."

 _You're outnumbered._

"Patrick, what should we buy?"

Patrick Pause.

"Whatever you like best."

 _Heeheehee._

 _Quit it._

"Well, what do you like best?"

Another shrug. Vague smile.

"I don't really eat candy."

 _Shut. Up._

 _Sister-_

* * *

"- visit your apartment, Patrick?"

Patented Patrick Pause.

 _He's trying to think if it smells like sex and candy. Hee._

"Okay."

 _I wonder if it does smell like sex and candy._

"Uh, Patrick-"

"It's okay, Annabel. I don't even think it smells like dog too much."

And so they went.

* * *

He did seem understandably nervous.

Taking his girlfriend's parents to his humble abode.

In a way, viewing what he materialistically had to offer their only daughter.

Which by the way . . .

". . . are."

"Oh, it's so clean and cozy!"

It doesn't smell like candy though. I am a little disappointed.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Since I left the orphanage."

. . . wasn't much.

It might have been stressful.

Too much so . . .

"Well, hello, you sweet thing!"

. . . if not for Scruffy Sam the Sublime.

"Well, You're just as precious now as you were at Christmas, yes, you are!"

Bette and Dot awkwardly . . .

 _Oh, Sister. Our knees._

 _We may need a crane to get back up again._

. . . lowering themselves down onto the floor to be reunited with the joyous canine.

As the hook-handed Jimmy turned to the humble abode dweller.

"Ya know, my first place was even smaller than this, I think."

Nodding.

"Always too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer."

Dark eyes taking in the shoebox of an apartment.

"Had wheels under it too. Always on the move."

Shrugging in typical Jimmy flair.

"At least you got a bathroom. We had to take our dumps out in the woods-"

"Jimmy!"

Amused, wifely bark from the floor.

Scruffy Sam the Sublime yipping in solidarity of his two-headed admirers.

Jimmy, ignoring the rebuff, continued.

"And I sure didn't have no swank job at a candy factory either."

Grinning his lined Jimmy dimples at his daughter's mildly relieved beau.

"You're doin' alright there, Patrick. Don't you worry about it."

"Thank you, sir."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

Annabel, arms wrapped supportively around Patrick's nearer, glowed happily.

 _Thank you, Daddy._

"Uh, dear ones?"

The standing looked down.

"A little help?"

* * *

"I can't believe you're going home tomorrow."

She seemed to be regressing temporarily. Burrowing into the comforting embrace of her mothers in a way that she had not in years.

"Of course, I can't really believe you're here in the first place."

Quiet harmonious chuckles in the relatively quiet motel room.

 _Neither can I really. It's a small miracle._

 _It really is._

"Thank you so much for coming. I know it was a long trip."

Twins arms squeezing their daughter lovingly.

"Of course, darling. You're our daughter. We'd do anything for you."

Jimmy their darling softly snoring atop the covers of the other bed.

"I love you, Moms. I'm sorry when I ever acted like I didn't. You didn't deserve that."

For once being the one conked out first following a light meal of sandwiches in some nearly blessedly empty Westminster dive and a short drive back to Boulder.

"Everyone struggles with who they are sometimes, darling. Bette and I certainly did, didn't we, Sister?"

Dark past flitting through their veins.

"Yes, we did, Dot. We're so grateful to be here now like we are and to have you, Annabel. Our life is amazing."

But distant now in the light of the present peace.

"We love you, Annabel."

Drowsy now, so much action and excitement and newness in such a short few days.

"I love you, Ma-Da. I love you, Ma-Ba."

And then, atop the slightly itchy, quite thin motel bed comforter than was not theirs, the Tattler-Darling-Walker women fell asleep content and happy.

* * *

 **Okay, no, this is not tomorrow. This is several days later. My bad.**

 **But did you like it?**

 **I hope so. :)**

 **And in the next hopefully soon chapter, they'll head home.**

 ***giggles***

 **It's gonna be fun.**

 **Hey, special thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing previously! You are very patient and encouraging. :)**


	43. Take The Long Way Home

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Take The Long Way Home

* * *

 _Well, here we are again._

 _Except the other way around._

 _Yes._

 _You know what?_

 _You read my mind._

 _Not even I can do that._

And they pulled over on the side . . .

"Hey, you girls okay?"

. . . of the road.

"Yes, we are, darling."

Big smiles.

"Here bring the camera."

Husband-ly confusion.

"Okay?"

 _Which side do you want to be on?_

 _You choose, Sister._

"Okay, Jimmy, we're ready!"

Realization dawning.

Because there they were.

Elizabeth Ann Tattler Darling Walker and Dorothy Jean Tattler Darling Walker.

Smiling toothily. Hands on hips.

Feet planted wide.

United and proud.

The Siamese Twins.

Currently residing in different states.

Dot in Kansas. Bette, Colorado.

"Alright then! Say 'cheese'!"

"Cheese!"

* * *

It took a full-out week.

Instead of the planned two days.

They stopped at Goodland.

"Oh, look! That roadsign says they have a museum that has mammoth bones! Let's stop!"

"I just hope it doesn't have oosik."

 _Remember, Paul?_

"What's oosik?"

"Well . . ."

* * *

And Oakley.

"Oh, look, that museum has shark teeth!"

 _Oh good, more bones._

* * *

And spent the night in WaKeeney.

Blissfully free of bones and dead things.

And instead full to the brim of . . .

"They call it 'Christmas City of the High Plains'."

"Sayyyy, now this is the place, huh?"

. . . other memorabilia.

"Yes, we're fine. No, no, we didn't make it to St. Louis. Well, we're in WaKeeney. Kansas."

 _Goodness, she sounds like somebody's mother._

 _Well, not our mother._

 _Maybe her mothers._

 _That's us._

 _And we sound like her._

 _Oh dear._

"Well, we just wanted to make a few extra stops, Annabel. Yes, we'll be careful; don't worry about us."

* * *

"Whoo, boy, what an exciting day, yawn, I'm feelin' pretty sleep-"

"Sure, there's nothing else you'd want to do, darling?"

"Maybe on that other bed over there?"

"You know, come to think about it, I just woke up."

* * *

"Hays has dinosaur bones."

"Ugh, no more fossils."

"There's real live buffalo too."

"Take this left."

* * *

And there was more than that.

There were zoos and antique shops and The Moon Marble Company.

And staring people and befuddled store owners.

Snooty somebodys and whispering nobodys.

And since no one quite knew what to do about the two-headed, one bodied women and their hook-handed consort, they didn't stop them from doing anything.

And it was . . .

"Jimmy! Come take a look at Dwight D. Eisenhower's kitchen chair!"

. . . absolutely wonderful.

* * *

They ate different food at every stop.

They saw different sights every day.

They perused junk shops and bought souvenirs for themselves and their loved ones back home.

They left behind newspaper blurbs and local news thirty second filler spots, though they did not know it.

And they had sex . . .

"Oh, Jimmy Darling, I think we're going to have to use this one bed for sleeping _and_ sex, just like at home."

"I'm willing to make the sacrifice. Come here!"

. . . every single night.

* * *

And as the days passed . . .

"Yes, darling, we are making our way home. Don't worry, we're heading in the right direction."

. . . they passed.

"Yes, don't worry, we're not lost. Yes, we promise."

Through Missouri.

 _I'm not going up in that arch, Sister. I'm afraid I'll fall out of it._

 _I'm afraid I'll jump!_

 _You know we're stuck together, right?_

Through Tennessee.

"Oh please, oh please, let's stop at the Grand Ole Opry!"

"Alright, just promise me you girls won't run off with George Jones."

"That's what we were going about to say about you and Dolly Parton."

The show was great.

* * *

". . . more days, alright?"

"Yeah, sure, boss. Is everything okay?"

"Yep. Just having . . ."

* * *

". . . such a good time we're taking our time coming back."

"Oh, that's wonderful, Dot! Well, don't worry about a thing. I'll look after the house until you get back. Take your time."

"Thank you, Lucy!"

"No problem, my dear."

* * *

The Moon Pie General Store . . .

"Oh my god, these are amazing!"

. . . peaked Jimmy's interest a little.

Sam's Treehouse in Calhoun was fascinating.

"Oooh, this is lovely! Bette! Do you see that?!"

As was the Noah's Ark Animal Sanctuary.

"Hey, girls, what do you think? Does this parrot make me look like a pirate?"

"No, your hooks make you look like a pirate."

 _Sister!_

 _What? He's laughing._

* * *

Atlanta was just as scary as before.

 _Signs, Sister, signs._

 _Brake, Sister, brake._

But when they were through . . .

"Hey girls, stop here, would you?"

"Why?"

. . . for an indulgently . . .

"A banana split? Oh Jimmy, how sweet!"

"Not as sweet as this chocolate syrup, oh my."

"Well, I just wanted to thank you for all the drivin'."

"Don't eat too much, Dot, or he can't thank us properly tonight!"

. . . shared treat.

* * *

"Oooh, you want to stop and see a replica of Old Sparky?!"

"Nooooooo . . ."

 _Sister . . ._

 _Oh._

"Sorry, Jimmy."

* * *

And then . . .

"Valdosta."

. . . back the way they had come.

At least . . .

 _And to think I was worried about them drivin'._

. . . just about.

* * *

"Stop here, stop here."

 _Sister?_

"Bette?"

 _But we're almost home._

 _I know._

They pulled over.

Stopped the car.

Just before the 'Welcome to Brandon' sign.

Dot and Bette, current requester, clambered out and Bette spun them in the direction they'd come.

 _Sister?_

 _Hush._

They stood.

Jimmy, beside the car, no doubt eyeing them with more than a trace of confusion.

Time passed, there on the Florida concrete.

The Florida swelter.

The Florida.

Finally . . .

 _It's over. Our vacation._

 _Yes._

 _I'm glad. I'm exhausted._

 _Yes._

 _But I'm a little sad too._

 _Oh, Sister._

"Thank you for enjoying this wonderful vacation with us, Jimmy."

"Yeah, you got it."

Heavy pause, the likes of which Patrick Anderson would have appreciated.

"It was a good time, wasn't it?"

Deep, releasing sigh.

"Yes, it was."

"The best."

They got back in the car.

Kissed their Jimmy, who had followed them.

And drove through the town they knew.

Past the school where Annabel had first shown her defiance against an misunderstanding world.

Past the church she had once desperately sought answers at.

Past the store she had claimed as her territory during that fateful spring.

And on home.

Where she had been born and raised.

And eventually, had left.

* * *

 _Our house!_

 _It's still there!_

 _It looks the same._

 _Like we never left._

 _But we did._

 _Yes, we did._

 _Oh look, there's Lucy!_

 _Oh, she's crying._

 _So are we._

"Darling!"

* * *

There were Lucy-made sandwiches for supper.

The hall phone on which to reassure Annabel that they were indeed finally safe and sound at home.

Family Ties at the correct time on the tv.

And a bidet attachment in the bathroom.

Sheets that smelled right.

Water glasses that belonged to them.

And a clothesline out back just waiting for all the travel worn clothes in need of laundering.

Eventually.

 _Sister?_

 _Yes?_

 _We're home._

 _Yes, we are. Are you glad?_

 _So glad._

And then, they slept for another week.

It seemed.

* * *

 **The only real drawback of writing this chapter is that now I really want to go on a big wandering vacay to these places!**

 **But I have toddlers and have to wait a bit.**

 **Boo.**

 **The waiting, not the family.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing. I really appreciate you as well as the silent readers for caring about this story.**

 **I'll be taking a bit off from posting now to develop some new chapters, focus on the real world, and maybe write little bits for another stuff which will help me write for this easier.**

 **I'll be back by the end of March (Spring break, yay) if not before.**

 **But I'm not giving up on this story. There's still too much good stuff to tell! :D**

 **See you later, gentle readers!**


	44. Far and Away

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Far and Away

* * *

 _This is not my beautiful house._

 _These are not my beautiful wives._

And it wasn't.

Not that June of 1982.

It was an affordable boarding house in Quincy, Florida.

Sunday evening through Friday morning.

Until Friday afternoon when he lit out from work and drove four plus hours straight through . . .

"Jimmy!"

"Hey!"

. . . to get home to his darlings.

It was a nice enough stay-over.

Set on wide lawn dotted with magnolias. Aging plantation house.

Inside, creaking floors and ancient paintings.

Scattered throughout a frilled sitting room and a frilled kitchen and a frilled . . .

 _Jesus, this place is dripping with lace. I sure hope Bette and Dot don't start knittin' doilies while I'm gone._

. . . dining room.

Jimmy's room was on the second floor. Facing the lawn.

A small rectangular space with a double bed, antique dresser, and a nightstand table with lamp.

Not too awful different from the one at home.

 _Doesn't smell like home._

Except for, of course . . .

 _Ah, what the hell. My hooks are gonna get caught on one of these for sure._

. . . all the lacy doilies.

One bathroom per floor.

That he was unsurprised to find bidet- . . .

 _Well, at least it's still in-door plumbing._

. . . free.

At the end of the first evening, after a relatively spirited game of checkers with a Mr. Fred Pearlman . . .

"Don't suppose you'd like to spin a tale of those hands, would you then . . ."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

"And, uh, logging accident. Long time back."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Not really much story there."

"Nope. Not really."

"Well, let's see if you're any better at playin' checkers than tellin' stories."

"Don't hold your breath."

"Can't. Marlboros won't let me."

. . . he'd retired to his room alone.

Turned out the light.

 _Sigh_.

And waited for sleep.

 _I wonder how the girls are doing._

* * *

And as far as how the girls were doing, . . .

 _Goodnight, Bette._

 _Goodnight, Dot._

. . . the first night . . .

 _Sigh_.

. . . was nothing short of eternally endless.

 _Sister?_

 _Yes?_

 _It's too quiet._

 _I know._

 _He's not snoring._

 _I know._

 _I can't sleep if he's not snoring._

 _Maybe we could pretend he's just sleeping on the couch._

 _I suppose so._

 _. . ._

 _Dot?_

 _Yes, Bette?_

 _He's not sleeping on the couch._

 _I know._

 _I can't sleep if he's not here and he's not on the couch._

 _I know. Neither can I._

 _He's supposed to be here._

 _I know._

 _What are we supposed to do now?_

 _I don't know. Maybe we can just lay here and rest so we're not too tired in the morning._

 _Okay._

 _. . ._

 _Sister?_

 _Yes?_

 _I can't sleep._

 _I know. Neither can I._

* * *

So they tried a few different things.

Warm milk.

 _Ugh._

Hot chamomile tea.

 _There's no ice in this tea. And it's hot. I can't drink this._

Warm baths and late night tv . . .

 _Well, there's the flag. What do you suggest we do now?_

 _We could sleep with Prince Valium._

 _We don't have any valium. And don't say it like that. You just sound silly._

. . . and even . . .

 _On second thought, let's not. It just makes me miss Jimmy more._

 _You're right, it does._

. . . more private types of evening relaxation.

So they started bringing books to bed, reading owlishly until they finally fell asleep.

Bedside lamp glowing softly into the empty night.

Until they woke up to go to the bathroom, . . .

 _I swear we stop liquids at six and we still have to get up in the middle of the night._

 _More than once._

. . . fumbling the light off as they stumbled back into their bed.

* * *

Breakfast was served promptly at seven a.m.

Eggs and bacon and biscuits Mondays and Fridays.

Oatmeal and toast and various toppings Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Buttermilk pancakes with butter and syrup on Wednesdays.

Coffee and sweet tea and tomato juice and orange juice from concentrate up for grabs as it appeared.

 _Boy, I bet Ma Petite could pack all this in her foot easy._

Then off to walk a few blocks to the newly opened . . .

". . . one boss: the customer. And he can fire everyone in company from the chairman on down, simply by spending his money somewhere else."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Walton."

. . . Walmart up the road a stretch or two.

* * *

After breakfast . . .

 _Just one egg and a slice of toast? Hardly seems worth the trouble._

 _Tell that to our stomach. Pass the juice._

. . . the days were not so bad.

 _Less laundry now. Less socks._

They were used to him not being there.

 _Oh, time for The Young and The Restless, Sister!_

 _Just let me pull one last weed . . . alright, Let's get a glass of sweet tea and see what Pam and Carl are up to now._

Suppers were quieter.

 _How much ranch dressing do you think Jimmy would drench this salad in?_

 _Enough to not taste the salad, I hazard._

And the evenings were downright boring.

 _Sister?_

 _Yes, Bette?_

 _I'm bored. Squiggy and Lenny aren't near as funny when Jimmy's not laughing at them. They're just annoying._

 _That's true._

 _Maybe we can call Lucy._

 _She's on call tonight with the ambulance._

 _Oh. Okay._

 _Well . . ._

 _What about Kathy and Thomas?_

 _They're in Delaware visiting George._

 _Oh._

 _Well . . ._

 _We could . . ._

 _Make a cake?_

 _It's eight-fifteen at night._

 _Can you think of anything better to do?_

 _No._

* * *

He called home on Wednesdays.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dot."

After eight when the rates were cheaper.

"Jimmy!"

"Sister, it's Jimmy!"

"Jimmy!"

"Hey, Bette!"

Sitting in the telephone nook, rotary phone sitting atop yet another . . .

 _I think Mrs. Locke might be a human spider._

. . . damn doily.

"How are you, darling?"

 _Drowning in lace, how the hell are-_

"- you girls? Sleeping okay?"

 _'Cause I'm not. There's too much space._

"We're trying. We've slept with you so long we don't know how to sleep without you."

A lump rising unexpectedly in his throat.

"Yeah, yeah, it's different, huh?"

And tears wanting to jump into his eyes.

Silence over the line and it occured to him that this was a miserable way to end their only phone conversation of the week.

"The Craven's dog jumped his leash again today."

Wan smile forming on his face, strengthening little by little.

"Oh yeah?"

At the familiar, comforting cadences.

"He showed up at our front door, begging for more cookies."

Of their lovely voices.

"And I told Bette, I said . . ."

* * *

 **Hello, all! How've you been?**

 **I've enjoyed my little sabbatical, I very much needed it. And I appreciate your graciousness in regard to the story hiatus.**

 **So yeah, Jimmy's doing this and well, you'll see. It's really going to be a good thing in the long run.**

 **And all Sam Walton dialogue is actual quotes from the man himself, no credit to me.**

 **Catching up with Annabel and Patrick in the next chapter Wednesday. See you then! :D**


	45. Me and You and a Dog Named Boo

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Me and You and a Dog Named Boo

* * *

Annabel Margaret Walker loved, loved, _loved_ their Westminister apartment.

It. Was. Perfect.

Bigger than both of their old apartments, rounding out at an entire four hundred and twenty square feet.

The walls just as white and dingy as in her old apartment.

The kitchen featuring open shelving that she and Patrick had straightened themselves after a rolling can of corn had nearly concussed Scruffy Sam the Sublime.

That kitchen and its shelving being barely a foot away from the blue topped card table at which they dined on their humble mac and cheese.

The bathroom was just a bit too small for them to, well, anyway it was just a bit too small.

Which was okay because they had a bedroom with a real, actual, closing door.

The double bed's ancient metal frame had squeaked so much they'd dismantled it and stuffed it into a garbage dump without mentioning to their landlord.

And then after some consideration and discussion, they had just thrown the bed on the floor, overjoying their canine companion.

A single floor to ceiling narrow built-in bookcase in the living room area was stuffed with vinyls, a player, and books they had meticiously spent a rainy afternoon organizing.

And, of course, a lava lamp.

Orange and blobby and entrancing.

The place was cramped and old and initially smelled of other people.

And she just didn't care because it was theirs.

Together.

Hers and Patrick's.

The two of them, together.

And of course, the unconcussed Scruffy Sam the Sublime.

* * *

They had searched high and low and far and wide (at least as far as Denver, Boulder, and Westminister) for something.

Tried to consider his apartment.

Where she could sleep in the single bed and he on the floor.

Couch.

Kitchen sink.

Shower stall.

Dog bed.

Somewhere.

So that wouldn't work.

Plus . . .

". . . new start."

"Like the car?"

"Yeah. Like the car."

And her apartment was even less accommodating.

So . . .

* * *

"You know . . . I'm beginning to think . . . a Rabbit . . . and a . . . Pinto . . . aren't the best moving . . . vehicles . . ."

"I think . . . you might be . . . right . . ."

* * *

"No Bowie poster?"

"Nope. Moving up and moving on. You're my dreamboat now, baby."

"Wow."

"Damn right, wow. Come here."

* * *

And yes, yes, Patrick did come home frequently smelling of candy and chocolate and all things sugary.

". . . me a lollipop!"

"Oh. I didn't know you wanted me to bring you a lollipop. Sorry, I'll bring you one next-"

"Oh yes, you did, sexy! Come here!"

"Oh."

* * *

Sometimes she was awake when he got in.

And she would look up from her snuggle spot on the couch with Scruffy Sam and smile.

"Hey Candyman! How'd it go?"

Sometimes she was asleep.

And she would suddenly feel his gentle arms around her.

"Mmm, heyyy . . ."

And sometimes she was the one at work . . .

". . . Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

"Hey, Annabel."

"Patrick!"

. . . and he would call her.

* * *

There was a puppy bed for Scruffy Sam the Sublime in the living room area for when they wanted to be alone.

"Make haste, Scruffy Sam, we're about to make some bread."

"What does that mean, Annabel?"

"You're telling me things aren't on the rise?"

"Oh. Yeah."

A laundromat on the corner for when they needed . . .

"I need to wash clothes tomorrow or I'll be naked."

"I'm okay with that."

. . . a wash and dry.

And a Chinese take-out nearby for really, really . . .

". . . dying for some noodles. We could share a box. Whaddya think?"

. . . special occasions.

* * *

There was alot more grooming than she had expected.

Showers of course.

And Patrick, not an overly hairy man, did resort to shaving his face every three days.

Annabel, her legs and underarms every two.

Scruffy Sam the Sublime lathered up within an inch of his life in a bath every week.

So their bathroom got quite . . .

"Do you want to take a shower with me?"

"I don't know. Last time I almost froze to death."

"Oh. Okay."

"I'll help you towel off when you're done though."

"Okay!"

. . . the workout, it seemed.

* * *

And speaking of loving support . . .

"Are you okay?"

 _Hell no._

"Yeah. I just . . . yeah."

Fetal position, pillow over head.

"What's wrong?"

 _I'm dying._

"Nothing."

Patrick pause.

"That's not true. What's wrong?"

 _Grrr. Let me alone you_ boy.

"I got my period, okay?"

Silence.

"Oh. Why didn't you want to tell me?"

 _Ugh, don't make me take care of your feelings, you big man-baby-_

"Because they're gross and embarrasing and guys don't understand them."

More silence.

 _See? I told you so._

"Oh. Okay."

Pause.

"I'm going to take Sam for a walk then. I'll be back later."

 _That's right. Flee, flee before the horror of the menstruation._

"Okay. Bye."

And she fell asleep to sound of them leaving.

* * *

And awoke to the sound of them returning.

 _Careful! It's still my dreaded Blood Moon!_

But she felt a little better so she clambered out of bed.

Opened the door.

And, bleary and disheveled, ventured out into "the world" beyond her bed.

"What are you doing?"

To see Patrick.

Unloading a bag of . . .

"Is that tampons?"

. . . various . . .

"And Kotex?"

. . . menstruation-focused . . .

"Yes. I got you potato chips and some chocolate chip cookies too."

. . . items.

And she was . . .

"But . . . but . . . how did you know what kind of supplies I use?"

. . . astounded.

"I looked under the bathroom sink."

Staring silence.

"Oh, and I brought you a hot water bottle too for the cramps. The lady at the market said it might help."

 _I . . . I . . ._

"I love you."

He smiled.

"I love you too, Annabel."

* * *

They still went on walks.

". . . Town Center, I mean, I know it's all Macy's and JCPenney, but . . ."

Went to movies.

"This house is clean."

 _I don't know, Tangina. You're awesome and all but I don't know._

And still flirted over the radio.

". . . tell you how I feel, my love . . . mere words, could not explain . . ."

They also did living-together things.

"How about grilled cheese tonight?"

"Can I put Spam in it?"

And adult things.

"Hang on, Scruffy Sam, get out of there, those sheets are, uh, dirty . . ."

And _real_ adult things.

"I've got to pay the electric bill. Will you pay the water?"

"Sure."

And it was all . . .

"Oooh, I don't think those oysters were very fresh, ugh . . ."

. . . absolutely . . .

"What was your first, urgh, clue?"

. . . great.

Mostly.

* * *

 **Thanks for coming back to the story, gentle readers!**

 **Thanks especially to reviewers brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autmnrose2010 for taking the time to speak up last chapter. :)**

 **Sunday, back to Jimmy and his darlings.**

 **See you then! :D**


	46. We Don't Like This

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

We Don't Like This

* * *

They had not anticipated how much they would miss him.

They loved him, of course. They were devoted to him.

His darling wives.

Always.

And yet, in all fairness, they had survived, although unhappily, the first thirty years of their conjoined life without his dimpled smile.

His deep, dark eyes.

His generous listening ears.

His adorable laughter.

And his warm, accepting love.

And although they had been together for going on nearly _another_ thirty years, Bette and Dot Tattler-Darling-Walker were still independent individuals.

Strong, confident women.

Bonded together in love, determination.

And flesh and bone and muscle.

Who didn't really need no man, if it came down to it. Even the one they loved.

All the same, the first weekend . . .

"Jimmy!"

"Girls!"

"So . . . uh . . . how's it . . . been?"

"Good . . . better . . ."

". . . now that . . . you're . . . here . . ."

And the next weekend . . .

"Jimmy!"

"Girls!"

And the next weekend . . .

"Jimmy!"

"Hey!"

But life slows down, adjusts, reacclimates. And by the fourth weekend . . .

"Girls!"

Distracted smiles.

A Bette forefinger up.

Jimmy's big wife-welcoming smile slowly fading . . .

"There!"

"Oh boy, Jimmy, this new Stephen King book is to _die_ for . . ."

"Oh, Sister, a pun, really?"

. . . which alerted him to another change in the Walker household.

"When did you start wearing glasses, Dot?"

They were . . . cute.

Big, red, plastic reading glasses that kind of made her look like a librari-

"She nearly pokes me in the eye with them all the time! I fear for my vision!"

"I told you I would only wear them to read, Bette!"

"But you keep forgetting to take them off!"

"Do you want me to go _blind_?"

"No, but neither do I!"

And Jimmy wondered how long he had been in Quincy.

Bette, suddenly giggling. Dot blushing.

"Oh my, where are our manners?"

"Sister dear, let us greet our husband properly."

His women rising, approaching.

Hugs and kisses and . . .

 _That's more like it now._

. . . in general, more welcomingness.

Followed by the fifth weekend . . .

"Hey girls!"

"Achoo!"

"Oh darling, it's so nice, ugh, to have you home . . ."

 _Uhhh . . ._

"Are you girls okay?"

Runny eyes. Sniffling noses.

"Yes. Achoo! I have a sinus infection-"

"- and I've got the sore throat and chills-"

"Just a moment, we'll get up and fix you something-achoo!-to eat-"

Jimmy shaking his head, lowering his bag by the door.

"No, no. You rest. I'll just get some crackers or something to eat. I'm not real hungry."

* * *

And then, something even more unexpected happened.

They grew used to him _not_ being there.

They weren't _happy_ about it.

It just became . . . accepted.

Commonplace.

The norm.

They took walks with Lucy, went fabric shopping here and there with Kathy.

They spent time with Patty's kids . . .

 _Oh Sister, one day we'll be grandmothers._

 _Maybe. But not to these children._

 _No._

. . . and made cakes and other baked goods for members of the community.

They shopped for their minimal grocery needs at Clark's, . . .

"Anything else, Mrs. Walkers?"

"No, thank you, Ted. Have a nice day."

"'Bye, Mrs. Walkers."

"'Bye, Ted."

. . . an alien landscape now that their Jimmy wasn't there.

They slept a little later and took longer baths.

They went to bed later and took long naps.

And then . . .

 _What is that smell, Sister?_

 _I think our dear husband ate some bad chili recently._

. . . on the weekends . . .

 _Why is there underwear all over the bathroom floor?_

 _Well, it's not ours, Sister._

. . . they spent time with their darling . . .

 _Where did the rest of the strawberry shortcake go?_

 _I'll give you one guess since Annabel isn't home._

. . . husband.

And it did . . .

 _We . . . we love him, Bette._

 _Yes, we do, Dot._

. . . affect them . . .

 _We miss him during the week._

 _Yes, we do, Dot._

. . . on a profound . . .

 _So why can't we stand him in our house?_

 _Because he doesn't live here that much anymore._

. . . level.

 _I do not like this, Sister._

 _Neither do I, Dot. It feels . . ._

 _. . . icky._

 _Yes, icky._

* * *

Jimmy as well was experiencing his own struggles.

He was making more money than ever in his life.

He was part of a creation of something . . . corporative.

He was independent, unencumbered, and except for Wednesday nights and Friday through Sunday evenings, relatively unattached.

And he was miserable.

Bored and lonely and miserable.

Fine enough during work . . .

". . . boost the self-esteem of their personnel. When people believe in themselves, they can accomplish amazing tasks."

". . ., Mr. Walton."

. . . but then afterward . . .

". . . evening, Mr. Walton."

"You too, Jimmy."

. . . simply biding his time in different ways until bedtime . . .

". . . checkers, Jimmy?"

"You read my mind, Mr. Pearlman."

. . . when unconsciousness would take him into the next day.

They invited him out, his co-workers.

He begged off for weeks . . .

". . . really bushed, man, thanks anyway . . ."

. . . in some vague sense of loyalty to the fact that he was there for business only and not any sort of pleasure.

". . . Talahassee, Jimmy! Leavin' in five!"

"Naw, thanks, you guys have a good time."

Before finally . . .

"Come on, Jimmy, come get a drink with us."

Casual shake of the head.

"No, thanks. Don't drink."

Goodnatured ribbing.

"What? You a priest or something?"

 _Startin' to feel like it._

Dismissive shrug.

"Naw. Just never agreed with me."

Arm around shoulder.

"Well, come on anyway and let's hear the story of those hooks."

Stirrings of discomfort and anxiety.

"Eh, no story. Logging accident."

 _Don't you people ever quit?_

"Well, maybe after a coupla drinks it'll get better."

 _Guess not._

. . . succumbing.

* * *

Decent guy, this Richard.

"Soooo, tell me about yer wife, Big Jim."

'Til you got a few drinks in him.

 _Wives_.

Then he just got louder and more annoying.

"What about her?"

And Jimmy felt like he was heading toward something not good.

"Well, what's her name?"

 _Aw, hell._

"Dorothy. Elizabeth."

He didn't lie out of shame or a clarity of disgust.

He lied out of protection.

His protection. Their protection.

Protection against a world that . . .

"Well, which is it? Dorothy or Elizabeth?"

 _Shit._

"Dorothy Elizabeth."

. . . would not understand.

"Well, she sounds like a real looker."

 _You have no idea._

"How come she ain't up here with ya?"

 _Probably to avoid people like you, Dick._

"Didn't want to leave our town. Used to it down there."

Grumbled huff.

"Women, huh? Ain't no sense of adventure. Just wanna sit around in the house you worked to get 'em and grow a fat ass watchin' tv. 'S why I'm still in this dump . . ."

 _Oh, is it time for M.A.S.H. yet? Wait-_

"Hey, man-"

Floppy wave of the hand.

"Nono, 'course not _yer_ wife, Big Jim. I'm sure she's a fine filly and all-"

 _I'm gonna stab him in the eye with my hook in a minute here._

"-But you know women, can't deny it, once they get that ring-"

 _Listen, you slobbering piece of shit-_

And that was that.

And aging Jimmy, full of piss and vinegar, but not alcohol, thank you very much, dammit, rose angrily to his feet.

The guy blinked with all three lines of vision.

"Whoa, Hey, man, hey . . ."

"I _love_ my wives, Dick. I love 'em. Won't have you talk in' bad about 'em. They're my whole life and they're good people and I'm not listenin' to this shit anymore!"

And then, creaky joints arguing that he really should be home in his recliner instead of traipsing around at all hours of the evening in bars and honkytonks, Jimmy Darling Walker stomped out of the smoked-infested slosh tank.

And trekked home in the dark.

Well, not _home_.

Not to Brandon.

Not to his darling wives.

But to the boarding house.

To his room.

On the second floor of lace doilied-hell.

But he couldn't rest.

He couldn't sleep.

He couldn't even . . .

 _-damn things-_

. . . get his hooks detached properly.

Finally-

 _Shit._

 _I want to go_ home _._

 _I want to be with my family._

 _What am I doing here?_

 _Money isn't worth this._

 _Nothing's worth this._

 _Nothing but my family._

 _And we were doing okay, weren't we?_

 _Maybe not in the long term but . . . the Cold War might end it all any day anyway._

 _And I would have been here and they would have been there._

 _And it's just not worth it._

 _I want to go home._

* * *

They didn't answer when he called them.

 _Well, it's not Wednesday. And they said they've been spending time when Lucy and Kathy to keep busy._

And they didn't answer when he called five minutes later.

 _Oh god, something's happened to them._

 _We've been robbed, the house is on fire, they've run away with the mailman, he has hands and is at my house more than me, this is all my fault, stupid Walmart-_

Five minutes after that-

 _If I leave now, I can make it there by two-thirty, pick the front door lock with my hook-_

"Hello?"

"Bette, hey!"

"This is Dot, Jimmy. Are you okay? You never get our voices wrong."

His heart was hammering, his ears were ringing.

And everything in him wanted to burst into tears, beg them to forgive him for quitting his job and come for bacon and eggs and and sex and home for breakfast.

"Yeah, yeah. I . . . I just miss you."

Barely audible sighs.

"We miss you too, Jimmy."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Trembling.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"Is the Wal-Mart okay?"

 _Who gives a shit, I don't give a shit, oh, you give a shit, oh-_

"Yeah. Listen, I've, I've got to go. I'll . . . I'll see you on Friday, okay? Love you."

* * *

 _What the hell was that, Sister?_

 _I don't know. Do you think he's okay?_

 _No, I do not._

 _What do we do?_

 _I don't know._

 _Shit._

 _Yes._

* * *

"Hey, Jimmy, listen, uh, if I, uh, said anything out of order at the bar, I'm sorry. I, uh, you know, this job's been stressin' me out and, uh, I guess I mighta had too much to drink . . ."

Dismissive shrug.

"Yeah, sure. No problem, Dick."

"Richard."

"Richard."

 _Dick._

* * *

 **I'll go ahead and say I'm sure there's people who can drink alcohol and remain their perfectly pleasant selves.**

 **Then there's these people.**

 **And our Jimmy used to be one.**

 ***shudders***

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for graciously reviewing! Thanks, you loyal readers for your continued interest. :)**


	47. Home, You Are

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Home, You Are

* * *

"Have you ever thought about going back to the orphanage?"

She hadn't said it right.

Patrick was understandably confused though still trademarkedly quiet.

"I mean to see Sister Daniel Stephani. You know, say hi. Show her that you're okay? I bet she wonders."

He didn't reply, only continued to stroke Scruffy Sam the Sublime's sublimely scruffy fur.

Annabel, now helplessly entrenched in this current thought process, decided to keep going.

"You could take me along for support. Introduce me. It'll make her happy. I mean, I'm pretty awesome, you know."

It was a little elbow nudge, a poke to relieve the growing tension.

Make him smile, bring the suddenly distant him back to the suddenly uncertain her.

But it didn't work.

He just sat there.

Staring blindly at nothing.

And suddenly she was nervous.

"Is that . . . is that a bad idea?"

 _Come on, you pausing pauser. This isn't a pause. This is mutism._

Finally he spoke.

So quiet she almost didn't hear him.

"No. It's not a bad idea. I just never really thought about going back."

* * *

During the long drive up to the massive, imposing . . .

 _Oh my god, I'm going to get murdered by a psychopath in that building-_

. . . gothic brick structure, gravel crunched under their tires.

Unheard above the sound of Annabel's heart pounding anxiously in her own ears.

She didn't know what she expected to find.

Nuns in huge black and white habits smacking everybody around with rulers and the Catholic Jesus.

Children sleeping in long rows of beds, hungry little waifs with big, empty eyes.

Muted voices and damning crosses and shapeless, baggy uniform clothing.

And, yes. There was some . . .

"Hello, welcome to Mount St Vincent's. How may I help you?"

. . . of that.

"Uh, um, uh . . ."

Patrick seemed to be floundering before even stepping more than a toe into the drowning pool of child abandonment issues.

Annabel squeezed his hand that she was holding with all her love.

And he, not really able to still yet, seemed to manage to pull himself together.

"I'm Patrick. Anderson."

At least enough to speak a little.

"I used to live here. I was wondering if I could see Sister Daniel Stephani."

The woman, girl, nun, novice, whatever, seemed to process this slowly.

And nodded, looking like she was trying to decide whether it was acceptable to smile or not.

"Just a moment please."

Then she left them alone.

* * *

"Patrick Anderson."

They were sitting.

Or had been.

Patrick rising to his feet so quick, Annabel felt like the rest of the room had sunk while he had inexplicably levitated.

Leaving Annabel, still sitting.

Like a commonplace sinner who hadn't grown up in an orphanage.

She popped up as well as the blackbird nun approached Patrick.

Pleased smile wrinkling her wimpled face.

Matching the soft alto voice that had spoken his name.

Approaching and offering the hug.

"Hello, Sister."

The nun hug.

A nun.

Hugging Patrick.

Like she knew him.

Well, mostly the shoulders.

Then she turned blue eyes upon Annabel, barely registering surprise at her heterchromia.

 _Yeah, I know. Jesus loves the freaks too_.

"And who is this lovely young lady?"

 _Who? Oh. Me._

"This is my girlfriend, Annabel. Annabel, this is Sister Daniel Stephani."

 _Oh god. Do I bow, do I curtesy, do I kiss something-_

"Annabel. Very nice to meet you."

 _-Shit, uh-_

"Nice to meet you too. Uh, Sister."

The woman smiled gently as if to say i _t's okay, girl-child, I know you have no idea what you're doing._

Before turning back to Patrick.

"What brings you here today, Patrick?"

Annabel watched him shift, felt his shyness overwhelming him.

"Annabel suggested it."

Pause.

Which the woman easily filled.

"Oh?"

 _There she goes with those interjections again._

"She thought it might be a good idea to come back and say 'thank you'."

The woman smiled again.

"What a thoughtful consideration. Thank you, Annabel."

* * *

And then she took them on a tour.

Mostly for the non-orphan's sake, Annabel supposed.

The sleeping dorms, rooms of rows of white sheeted, carefully made beds.

The dining hall, rows of tables and benches, all quiet and clean and waiting for the evening meal.

The closed classroom doors, through which was barely decernible, the sound of various lecturing.

The grounds, clean and green and neat.

Even the cemetery with its sad little carved, white gravestones beyond the picket fence.

And Annabel wondered where the Contrition Closets were.

And the leather strap cabinets.

All the things she had heard nightmare stories about from people who may or may not have accurate knowledge of such things.

There was one thing that was painfully, sadly clear.

The absence of parents, loved ones. Family.

 _I need to call Moms and Daddy._

And then, at the end of the tour and the _tell me about yourself_ -s, and the skirting of the living togetherness, they arrived back at the beginning.

Physically and . . .

"Sister . . ."

. . . ecumenically, at least, for Patrick.

"Sister, would you . . ."

Faltering again, this time seemingly caught between being a logical grownup and the child who had raised with the minimal comforts afforded orphans.

". . . would you please . . . bless us?"

 _Do what now?_

The Sister, seeming to expect this, smiled gently.

"Of course, Patrick."

Annabel knelt when he knelt, copying the pressed hands to the face.

"Dear Father God . . ."

". . . beseech you . . ."

". . . dangers that are ever present in our world . . ."

". . . strength to make the right decisions . . .

. . . journey through life . . ."

". . . prayer through Christ Our Lord . . .

. . . Amen."

"Amen."

"Amen."

Annabel sensed movement above her head and then Patrick was kissing the nun's hand . . .

 _I hope nuns believe in soap-_

. . . so Annabel reflexively did the same.

And they rose.

And the nun hugged them both.

Stepping back.

Smiling quietly.

"Thank you for encouraging him to return, Annabel. I am most grateful to see him happy. And I believe you must be a big part of that."

Annabel smiled.

"Thank you, Sister. For helping him."

And that was that.

"Goodbye, Sister."

"Goodbye, Patrick. Goodbye, Annabel."

"Goodbye."

* * *

He was silent as the grave on the way back home.

And not the normal _man, this is a good song_ silent.

Like, _gone_ silent.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

She was worried that he was mad.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

And when they finally made it back to their apartment, he shut off the engine.

 _"This isn't going to work."_

 _"What?"_

 _"I can't do this. I can't be with you anymore."_

 _"What?"_

 _He wasn't yelling. On the contrary, his voice was quiet._

 _Flat._

 _Finished._

 _Over._

 _"This was a mistake. You're too pushy. Too controlling. I hated going back there. It made me feel like shit. I hate you for making me do that."_

 _He wasn't looking at her, he wasn't looking at anything._

 _Head down, ears bright red._

 _"I'm going to take Sam for a long walk. When I come back, please just be gone."_

And then she cleared and he got out of the car and she followed him.

She was practically vibrating by the time the apartment door closed behind them.

"Patrick, I'm sorry if I upset you-"

And he turned suddenly and embraced her.

Wrapped his arms around her, enveloped her.

Burying his face down in her hair, pressing her to him.

So fully and completely, she felt tears rising and a lump in her throat as she hugged him back, squeezed him tight.

Giving him all the acceptance and love there was in the world.

They stayed that way for a long time, it felt like.

Until she was worried he was experiencing some sort of break-

"Patrick-"

And then he pressed his lips to hers.

Sweet and loving.

 _Oh._

Changing gradually, shifting over into-

 _Oh-_

And she realized . . .

 _Close your puppy-dog eyes, Sam._

. . . they were not alone.

And she broke the kiss.

Only long enough to pull him into their room.

And shut the door.

* * *

 _Wow, what the, wow-_

She was half unconscious with satisfaction.

Laying there in his arms.

Not for the first time and not for the last, she hoped.

And definitely not the ending of the day she had been expecting.

She thought Patrick just as half comatose as she was.

"Every day I'm grateful I'm with you."

But apparently he was wide awake.

And talking softly.

"I feel so happy and content. And I'll wonder if I'm dreaming. And I get scared it will end and I'll wake up and be alone again."

Her brow furrowed at his words and her mouth pulled down and she realized . . .

"Going back to the orphanage, feeling the emptiness, feeling loneliness, it was so strong, like I was a kid again."

. . . she was waking straight up.

"The nuns tried to make it better but . . ."

He stopped talking then and she tried to think of something reassuring to say but she couldn't.

His voice came back again.

Quieter.

"Did you know that babies in an orphanage don't cry? They just lay there. The nuns have to train them not to expect to be picked up because they don't have enough nuns to pick them up and cuddle them all day unless it's feeding time or changing time. The babies just lay there because they know crying doesn't do any good. They just lay there. Alone."

He paused.

When I'm a father, I will _always_ pick my baby up. I will _always_ hold them. As much as they want. I will _never_ deny them my touch. Not ever."

Annabel realized he was too busy bearing his soul to remember to stutter and flounder about _'if, you know, we might have kids, if you want to have kids, you know'_.

And found tears rolling down her face.

 _Oh Patrick._

"Patrick, I'm sorry, I-"

"Don't be."

He rose up a little, kissed the tip of her nose.

"It's okay now."

And smiled a little, though his eyes were still strange.

"I need to take Sam for a walk. Do you want to come?"

She grinned cheekily at him.

"I thought I just did."

The corner of his mouth twitched up as his ears blushed.

And she relented.

"I mean, yes."

And they . . .

"Hey, Scruffy Sam! Sorry for the hiatus! You want to go for a walk?"

. . . made themselves presentable . . .

 _Yip!_

. . . and went.

"Cool, let's go!"

* * *

 **Okay so hopefully any and all of the Catholic stuff was accurate and non-offensive. I tried.**

 **And no, Patrick doesn't have a nun fetish or anything. He just got emotional. Hope that came across right.**

 **Thanks to midnightrebellion86 for graciously reviewing before!**

 **See you Sunday for the flipside of Jimmy and his darlings. :)**


	48. Achieve Your Dreams

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Achieve Your Dreams

* * *

Their Jimmy did not seem well.

Not himself . . .

"Dammit . . ."

"What's wrong, darling?"

"Nothing, I just . . . nothing."

. . . at all.

Quiet.

Grumpy.

Discontent.

"Darling, is everything alright?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

And they would try.

"Is the job alright? Is Mr. Walton-"

"No, he's fine."

And Mr. Walton was.

And the job was.

But Jimmy was not.

Not really.

And Bette and Dot . . .

 _Something's wrong, Sister._

 _Yes. And he's not talking._

 _How do we make him talk?_

 _He has to choose to._

. . . were concerned.

"Are you upset?"

"Did we do something?"

"No, no. You girls are great, you really are."

The seemingly spiritual malaise started Sunday mornings and progressed all throughout the day until . . .

"Alright then. Guess I better get on the road."

"Okay, darling."

"We love you."

"I love you two."

. . . late afternoon.

And then with stone face and resolute jaw, their Jimmy would kiss them goodbye.

Get into his truck.

And drive away.

And emptiness and loneliness and silence would descend onto their little patch of life in Brandon, Florida.

Along with mixtures of guilty relief and bittersweet longing.

 _Sister?_

 _What is it, Bette?_

 _I don't like this._

 _Neither do I._

 _What do we do?_

 _I don't know. I just don't know._

* * *

"So, how's the Walmart?"

"Fine."

Red marker shuffle. Black marker shuffle.

"Wife?"

"Fine."

Red marker. Black marker.

"Daughter?"

"Fine."

Red.

"King me."

 _Dammit_.

Fumbling of red.

Muted sigh of exasperation.

"Your move."

Shuffle of black.

Back to red.

"King me."

 _Shit_.

Black.

Red.

"King me."

 _Son of a bitch._

"You alright there, Jimmy?"

 _No, I'm gettin' my ass handed to me by an old man!_

"Yeah."

Black.

Red.

And then . . .

"Well, seems like you're surrounded. Give?"

"Yeah, I give."

. . . the game was over.

"Well, thanks for the game, Mr. Pearlman."

Screeching back of chair as the hook-handed man rose.

"A'course, a'course . . . Jimmy?"

"Yeah?"

"Life's too short to not be where you're happy. You waste it; you're gone. Don't get another."

Scratching of whiskery beard. Arthritic shrug.

"Years past, life was different. You did what you had to do. Now, well, world's changed, I think."

Jimmy thought about this.

Pearlman continued.

"And the money?"

Jimmy raised his eyes.

"It's just paper in the end."

And nodded.

"Yeah."

The one and only Mr. Fred Pearlman nodded in return, seeming to content himself that he had said his piece.

"All then. Good night, Jimmy."

"Goodnight, Fred."

And then, for wont of anything better to do, Jimmy went up to his room.

Dodged all the holey doilies to turn off the light.

And went to bed.

Where he lay on his back.

Stared at the ceiling.

And thought.

About his life.

About the Walmart.

And his wives.

* * *

Friday evening, as per usual, he went home.

Home to Brandon.

Home to his wives.

"Darling!"

With their lined faces and their lovely smiles.

"How are you?"

Their warm hugs and their sweet kisses.

"We need to talk."

Switching over to concern.

"What is it, Jimmy?"

Worry.

"What's wrong?"

Jimmy sinking down in his chair, wives mirroring him on the couch.

Exhalation of weary breath from his heavy chest.

Wishing, just for once, he could rub a hand over his face.

A useless attempt to wipe away the tiredness, frustration of life.

But a comforting gesture nevertheless.

One that he was denied. By his own desperate fault.

Forever.

Anyway . . .

"Everything's wrong. Everything."

They sat in silence, his Bette and Dot, waiting for an explanation.

Waiting for doom. Waiting for . . .

"Jimmy?"

. . . him to speak.

And he didn't know how.

So he just started.

"The job's fine. Sam's fine."

And kept going.

"But I'm not fine. I'm not. I know I said I am but . . ."

He faded away, staring at them.

He felt miserable, like he was letting them down.

Not going out and succeeding like he said he would.

Like he had said he wanted to.

 _But I don't want to. I don't. Not anymore._

 _Not like this._

 _I just - I just want to be home._

 _Home with-_

"The three of us are supposed to be together. And we're not. We're not anymore. Even when we're here, we're not together because all I can think about is that soon I'll have to leave again."

He sounded pitiful, he knew, like a sad, sulking little boy.

And he just couldn't help it.

"I miss us together."

"Jimmy . . ."

And he burst forth with what was really in his heart.

"I don't mind being somewhere else, doing a different job. But I can't stand being away from you two."

Weighing on his mind.

"I think I need to quit the Walmart job and come home. Permanently. I don't think it's working out. I think I need to be here."

They stared at him, faces blank.

And when Dot spoke, her voice seemed carefully not shaky.

"We don't want to hold you back from achieving your dreams, Jimmy."

Bette's voice now, also carefully prepared.

"We want you to be happy."

Jimmy shook his head a little, feeling more clear and certain than he had in a long time.

"You know, I realized something while I was in Quincy . . . all those nights without the two of you by my side."

Wanting to get the words out right, hoping he could say them before they got tangled up and messy.

"I dreamed about you every night. Both of you."

So they would know and understand his mind.

"So _you_ are my dreams. Being with you. Coming home to you. You."

So they would know how precious they were to him.

"Every night. Not just one or two nights. All of them. Every single one."

He swallowed thickly, finding tears stinging his eyes and being unable to wipe them away.

Dot and Bette, their own tears flowing freely at the beauty of his bared soul, rose and wiped them away for them with gentle fingers.

"I love you girls. Both of you. Bette. Dot. I love you so much."

Happy laughter, happy tears.

"Oh, Jimmy-"

"We love you too."

And then they kissed him.

"Darling-"

And he kissed them right back.

"We love you."

* * *

So, Jimmy came home.

He respectfully and professionally . . .

". . . family has got to come first for me, Sam."

. . . quit Walmart.

"I understand, Jimmy. It's been good to have you. You ever change your mind, just let me know."

"Yes, sir, I will."

Bid a final farewell to Quincy, Florida.

"Hey, where you goin', Jimmy?"

"Goin' home. It's all yours, Dick."

"Richard."

"Richard."

 _Dick._

And to the doilied boarding house.

". . . checkers, Mr. Pearlman."

"My pleasure, Jimmy. You go where you'll be happy now, alright? And take some flowers with you."

And went home to his . . .

"Darling!"

"Darling!"

"There's my girls!"

"Oh, daisies, how lovely!"

. . . darlings.

* * *

"So Jimmy quit the Walmart job."

Slight pause, all the way from Colorado.

"Wow, that was quick. Not even six months. What'd he do that for?"

And Jimmy's loyal wives felt a conjoined rush of defensiveness for their darling.

"He said he wanted to come home to us more than he wanted to make money."

Another pause over the phone line and they wondered vaguely . . .

 _I wonder if Annabel's turned into, what do they call it, a yuppie?_

 _If she is, we're going to drive up there and spank her right and proper._

 _Yes, we are._

. . . what she would say.

"Well, if he's happier, then good for him. I kinda thought it was a dumb idea anyway."

 _Thank goodness. That is such a long drive to Colorado. Wait-_

"What about you, Moms? Are you happier?"

"Yes, yes, we are, Annabel."

"Awesome! Hey, have you guys seen Tron yet? You should totally see Tron-"

* * *

So Jimmy came home.

 _Ding!_

"Welcome to Clark's. Let me know if you need anything."

And went back to work.

"You back, Jimmy?"

"Looks that way, Mrs. Henson."

"Good. I've missed you. Welcome back."

"Thank you, Mrs. Henson."

And everything . . .

"Well, Jimmy, have you seen what Reagan's doing up there in Washington?"

"Yeah, Earl, I think heard something about it."

"Well, what are we gonna do about this happy horseshit then?"

"Nothing I suppose, Earl. I mean, Washington's all the way up there and we're all the way down here. Not much to do."

"You mean to tell me-"

. . . went back to normal.

* * *

"Jimmy . . ."

So Jimmy their darling was back.

". . . on fire . . ."

For good.

"Jimmy . . ."

And currently in their kitchen.

". . . for Elvira . . ."

Singing. And dancing.

". . . -up, omm poppa omm poppa mowmow . . ."

Well, gyrating really.

". . . giddy up, omm poppa omm poppa mowmow . . ."

Inappropriately.

"Jimmy . . ."

". . . heigh ho, Silver . . ."

Lewdly.

". . . away . . ."

Adorably.

"Jimmy . . ."

". . . and I'ma singin' Elvira . . ."

"Jimmy, you're getting too old for that-"

". . . Elvira . . ."

"You're going to throw your back out-"

". . . My heart's on fire . . ."

"Jimmy, the bacon's going to burn-"

". . . for Elvira!"

* * *

 **You probably already suspected Jimmy would quit the Walmart and come home. Hope it's not too much of a disappointment.**

 **I think he's happier now.**

 **How about you?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for continuing to review. You're very, very gracious. :)**


	49. Everything, Everything

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Everything, Everything, 'Cause You Know, Life

* * *

"All right, all right, everybody empty ya pockets and shake out ya cuffs, here we go!"

Jimmy Darling Walker, Grand Major PooPa-Da of the evening's poker game . . .

"Five Card Draw's the name of the game, ladies and gents . . ."

. . . proud and mischievous under his green poker visor . . .

". . . Jacks'r better, nothin' wild . . ."

. . . hooks agleam in the kitchen table light.

". . . everybody ante."

. . . holding court on the latest game.

"Alright, let's roll."

A few moments of throat clearing and card shuffling from Thomas Clark and the men of the block.

Then . . .

"Check."

"Check."

Thomas.

"I'm in for a sidewalk wash."

"Call."

Jimmy, calm and confident.

"Okay, I see your sidewalk wash and I raise you a driveway sweep."

White flag of defeat.

"Okay, I'm out."

"Out."

"Out."

"In."

Walker vs Clark.

"Okay, how many you want?"

"One."

"Alright. Dealer takes two."

A pause for card perusal.

"Whaddya bet?"

"I bet, uh, a hedge clipping."

Interested murmurs.

"Okay . . . I see your hedge clipping and I raise you . . . shears sharpening."

A moment of silence as this was considered.

"Okay. I see your shears and raise you . . . spring gutter cleaning."

Unmuttered ooo's.

"See your gutter cleaning and raise you . . . fire ant burnout."

Pressure rising.

"Okay, I see your fire ants and raise you . . . fence painting."

Raised eyebrows all around.

"Okay, I'm calling your fence painting. Whaddya got?"

A beat of silence.

"Full house."

Self-satisfied smile, release of victory breath.

And then . . .

"Royal flush."

"What?!"

* * *

 _What are they doing out there, Sister?_

 _I think our dear Jimmy just cleaned house._

 _Oh poo, he hasn't done that since we threw out our back six years ago._

 _And he didn't do it very well._

 _But he tried._

 _Yes._

 _I'm looking forward to lunch with Lucy tomorrow._

 _Yes, I am as well._

 _I think we'll get carrot cake._

 _Ooh, carrot cake . . ._

* * *

"Good to have you back, Jimmy."

"Thanks, Tom."

"And, uh, see you next weekend, then. Maybe we'll start with those shears, eh?"

"Aww, no, that was just good fun."

Warm-hearted cuff on the shoulder.

"All the same. I'm a man of my word. Even in poker. I'll be by around eight."

"Alright then. I'll call in for half the mosquitos."

Tom snorted.

"Good luck."

Floridians knew their mosquitos.

"Goodnight, Jimmy."

"Goodnight, Tom."

* * *

It had been a pretty down to earth summer.

Well, with the exception of Lawnchair Larry.

And then fall had started wandering in and she had felt a little bit lost.

 _Wait, I don't need to go to class? Really? But it's what I_ do _._

But she had gone on, her and Patrick and Scruffy Sam the Sublime.

Doing their thing, moving along.

Nights at the radio station . . .

". . . Shift with Ana Darling. What can I spin you for?"

. . . mornings in bed . . .

"Patrick."

"Hmm?"

"Give back some covers, you're hoggin' 'em all."

Mumbled reply she swore had a grin in it.

"No, I'm not. It's Sam."

And she felt happy and satisfied with the world in general.

Then Daddy had quit his new job and run back to boring old Brandon.

 _Wow, made it all the way to nowhere and back again, according to Moms._

But she got it, she really did.

They were his home, Ma-Da and Ma-Ba.

He just wasn't happy without them.

And it wasn't like he didn't have a . . .

". . . Clark's. This is my daughter, Annabel."

"I'm seven. Can we help you with anything?"

. . . a real job anyway.

So whatever.

They were happy, she was happy.

And they seemed to be.

And she very much was.

* * *

It wasn't perfect.

". . . shot them! Like they didn't matter! I didn't know school teachers could even _do_ something like that!"

"It's okay, Ma-Da, it was all the way down in Miami."

"It's not okay, Annabel! He _killed_ those people!"

"I know, I know."

Not in the least.

". . . Tylenol!"

"But That was all the way up in Chicago, Daddy."

"Well, I don't know where Chicago is, Annabel, I'm just sayin', be safe, okay?"

"Okay."

Even though there was Disney World.

". . . Epcot. We'll have to go at Christmas and check it out."

"Okay."

And other new interests.

". . . MTV, Moms!"

"What's an MTV?"

So there were some bright moments.

"Patrick?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Annabel."

Yip!

"We love you too, Scruffy Sam."

That made life worth living.

* * *

The autumn wind started as a dull roar above her head. High up in the trees.

Working its way down through the naked branches.

Blustering errant leaves off and away down onto the pavement to scurry, glee, race away before her sneakered feet.

Finally hitting her, sending her blond hair flying in all directions, whipping around her face.

Even her AquaNetted bangs couldn't resist it.

And the wind, the _wind_.

It pushed against her front . . .

 _Ah, go ahead burn off those fries._

. . . as she walked along.

There was even a wind tornado.

Leaves rattling along the ground suddenly caught up in whirling current of air.

Dozens of them rising, rising up in a spinning vortex of dry, dessicated plant matter.

Spinning along the ground, turning toward her, enveloping her, encircling her.

As she ducked her head somewhat, a small smile playing upon her lips as she defiantly defied deadly Mother Nature.

 _Bring it on, dude. I can take it._

And it was really, really cool.

 _Oh my god, life is so awesome._

* * *

Right after Annabel and Patrick Joan Jett-ed and Rocky Balboa-ed their way through a Colorado Halloween with their Scruffy Sam the Sublime E.T. . . .

". . . more Reese's pieces. It might hurt his stomach."

"Oh, oh okay."

. . . they enjoyed a marginally better Thanksgiving meal, . . .

". . . hell, Scruffy Sam, how does it still look like the same pumpkin pie that went in you?!"

. . . than the previous year.

"I told you."

And realized they were about to run face-first into their first Christmas as a cohabitating couple.

Annabel did anyway. Because of Patrick.

* * *

Cold and dreary winter day.

 _Ugh-_

And Annabel feeling decidedly grouchy.

 _Stupid freezing thin air-_

As she turned the knob to the apartment.

 _Stupid freezing stupid-_

And stopped.

The tiny eating nook to her immediate left was softly aglow.

 _What-_

A six foot evergreen.

Draped with quietly bubbling multi-colored lights.

Tinsel.

And dangling silk tree baubles.

With a golden star on top.

And a green wrap around the underneath water tray.

 _What-_

Patrick appeared, somewhat nervously, to her right. Sam next to him, wagging excitedly.

"I know we're still going to Florida and that's good but I thought it would be fun for now."

Barely pausing for a Patrick Pause.

"And we'll have to eat on the couch for a while, I folded up the table and chairs behind the couch but-"

Annabel dropped her bag and coat and wrapped herself up his arms with joy.

"Oh Patrick, I love it," she whispered. "Thank you."

She felt his smile more than saw it, as his face was cradled up against hers.

"Thank you for being here with me, Annabel."

She pulled back from the hug.

But only enough to kiss him, warm and sweet and happy.

He responded, arms tightening around her again.

* * *

"I always wanted to decorate for Christmas. There just never seemed to be any point."

They were sitting on the rug, backs braced against the wall.

Sam snuggled between them.

Gazing up at their Christmas tree and talking.

Well, Patrick was talking.

"We had one at the orphanage at Christmas. We decorated it with popcorn and paper chains and spray-painted pine cones."

Annabel listening quietly.

"Was it really bad? The orphanage, I mean."

Patrick Pause.

"Not too bad. The nuns kept everybody quiet and well behaved for the most part. Mostly it was just lonely. Even with other people around all the time."

Annabel put her head on his shoulder, wrapped both arms around his one connected to that shoulder.

"I never knew anything else. I just knew nobody loved me except God."

He huffed gently.

"That's what the nuns said anyway."

Annabel thought about it.

"Is that what you believe?"

Pause.

"I'm here now. With you. And Sam. Something's good."

Annabel nuzzled herself to his side.

"Yes, it is."

* * *

"Annabel! Patrick! Merry Christmas!"

"Hey, Moms! Hey, Daddy! Merry Christmas!"

"We're so glad you're here!"

"How was the drive?"

"It was good, Mr. Walker. Long."

"What did I say about the Mr.?"

"Sorry, uh, Jimmy."

"That's more like it. So . . ."

* * *

 **Buncha life all jammed together here without rhyme or reason, I know.**

 **But honestly, that's how it feels sometimes, so . . .**

 ***shrugs***

 **We'll be starting a new story arc here soon. Would anyone like to guess what it will be?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, DinahRay, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing so kindly as always.**

 **I'm glad Jimmy and his darlings are reunited too. :D**

 **See you next Sunday!**


	50. Night Shift, Life Shift

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Night Shift, Life Shift

* * *

And 1983 . . .

"I'm gonna chunk this stupid Rubix cube out the window! Why did you even bring this thing home?!"

"Larry at work gave it to me. I thought you'd like it, Annabel."

"Well, I don't, Patrick! I _hate_ it . . . here, give it back, let me try it again."

. . . was much the same.

It went along and just kept going.

Just like the lava in Hawaii.

And they went along.

Just like the tech industry, that was slowly becoming awash in personal home computers, word processors, and VCRs.

Some things stopped.

Like M.A.S.H.

And the automatic shutdown thingie on the nuclear reactor in New Jersey.

But nothing that concerned them personally.

Not really.

Luke Skywalker finally became a . . .

". . . Jedi. Like my father before me."

Patrick's hair got longer.

"Ooh, I like it. Gives me something to hold on to."

Annabel's got more teased.

". . . crunchy. Do you think it's safe, you know, for your hair?"

And Scruffy Sam's . . .

"Who's a good boy, who's a good boy . . ."

. . . stayed the same.

Sting and The Police were watching someone.

While everybody else was watching Michael Jackson moonwalk.

Parachute pants weren't just for parachuting anymore.

But most people (the ones with money anyway) thought their Members Only jackets were totally rad.

Annabel patiently listened to her mothers in Florida complain that her father would not stop complaining about the rising price of milk.

While Sally Ride flew away from it all into space.

And other women flashdanced through their lives.

But Annabel, well, Annabel was just happy.

Happy with her radiostation and her CandyMan and her Scruffiest of Sams.

She probably could have gone on like that indefinitely.

She certainly would have enjoyed it, the comfortable limbo of her life in Colorado.

But life sometimes changes, . . .

"Owww-"

. . . shifts . . .

"Sorry."

. . . without the express approval . . .

"No, it's okay. They're just sore."

. . . of the ones . . .

"Do you want me to stop?"

. . . trying to live it.

"Hell no. They're just sore is all. You can kiss them and make them feel better if you want."

"Okay."

And just about a year into her "Best Life Ever" with Patrick the Pauser and Scruffy Sam the Sublime, something really big happened.

 _Man, it's nice to not have my period to- wait -_

And she was not ready for it.

* * *

The pregnancy test . . .

 _This is what I do now? Pee on sticks?_

. . . was positive.

 _Shit._

And the visit to the Denver Health Department . . .

 _Stupid, stupid._

. . . confirmed the same.

 _Stupid sex._

That Annabel Margaret Walker, age twenty-two and a half . . .

 _Stupid, awesome sex._

. . . was definitely pregnant.

Expecting.

Knocked up.

Preggers.

Carrying.

With child.

A human one, she figured.

"Would you like to discuss your options?"

And the woman before her . . .

"What do you mean?"

. . . clearly was going through some sort of checklist on her clipboard there.

"Abortion, adoption, parenthood. You're obviously not married, are you, Miss Walker?"

Annabel felt her face growing hot, her heart pounding in anger, soul embarrassed, stomach sick.

 _Oh for god's sake. Could you_ be _more_ _judgmental_ _?_

And she could only confirm.

"No."

Medical attendant nodding in affirmation.

"Alright then. So if you choose abortion-"

And Annabel staggered to her feet, nearly knocking over an arrangement of planned parenthood pamphlets on the way up.

"Okay, no, I can't do this right now, I gotta go, thanks-"

And ran out.

Out of the examination room, out of the waiting room.

Out of the building.

And to her car . . .

 _Ahdjfkcjtbbxhehj-_

. . . where she drove like hell.

Away.

From everybody and everything.

From the whole damn . . .

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit-_

. . . world.

And everything in it.

* * *

And now here she was.

Sitting.

Quiet and still.

And worried.

Looking out over the mountains, over the beautiful Colorado vista.

To the beyond places she could not see, only imagine.

She sat.

In complete and utter . . .

 _Well, sex does that sometimes, the hell-_

. . . bewilderment.

 _I'm pregnant. I'm really pregnant._

 _I'm going to have a baby._

 _A baby._

 _Oh god, I'm not ready for this._

 _Oh god._

More sitting. More thinking.

More anxiety.

 _I can't have an abortion; I mean it's a living thing._

 _A person. A baby._

Or would be. Eventually.

 _I can't give it away either; oh god, oh Patrick-_

 _So I guess I'm going to be . . . a mom._

 _Shit._

A nighttime, minimum-wage paid dj mom.

 _Oh god, how am I going to do this?_

And an image swirled into her head.

 _Ana Darling._

 _Giant Dolly Parton breasts heavy with milk, baby hanging off her front._

 _Suckling, whining, groping._

 _Squirming, pooping._

 _Ana, headphones on her head, microphone inches from her mouth._

 _". . . Shift with Ana Momma, I mean, Ana Darling. What can I spin you, ouch, for?"_

 _"Hey, I wanna hear 'Baby, Ima Want You."_

 _"Hey, do you got 'My Baby Wrote Me A Letter'?"_

 _"Hey, I wanna hear, 'Ooh, Baby, Baby'."_

Of course you do.

 _"You got it, man. Ouch. Comin' in ten."_

The vision cleared and another thought hit her straight in the face.

 _What if it's like me?_

 _A freak like me._

 _Different color eyes._

 _Or like Moms._

 _Two heads and one body._

 _I love them but-_

The thought of lobster claws never really occurred to her; her father had never had them for her to see, only his prosthetics.

 _Oh god. I can't do this. I cannot do this._

And then, right on cue, as if summoned, Patrick showed up.

Hiking up their favorite trail.

Sun squinting his eyes.

As expected.

As agreed upon.

Right on time.

And without Scruffy Sam . . .

". . . okay?"

"Ok."

Barely a pause.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, uh, I gotta go, I'll see you then, okay?"

"Okay."

. . . the Sublime.

As requested.

"Hi."

"Hi."

His entire countenance, probably meant to be carefully blank, still radiated anxiety and worry.

Just like, she figured, hers did.

She stood up as he stopped within arm's reach.

And took a deep breath under the blue dome of the world.

"I have something to tell you, Patrick."

* * *

 **For those of you who guessed baby, applause!**

 **For those of you who guessed wedding, well, um . . .**

 **So thanks for reading and reviewing brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010!**

 **See you again soon! :)**


	51. Bizarro Patrick

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Bizarro Patrick

* * *

 _He stared at her for a long moment, clearly shocked._

 _"You're going to have a_ baby _?"_

 _Her heart hammered so hard in her chest, she could barely hear her own response._

 _"Yes."_

 _He could have been a statue, he was so still._

 _Then his face pinched._

 _"Annabel, I can't be a_ father _. I was raised in an_ orphanage _. I work the night shift at a candy factory. It's all I can do to take care of a_ dog _. I can't do this! I can't raise a_ baby _!"_

 _As he stood there, handsome and petulant and ridiculous, Annabel felt everything inside her break._

 _"You're right. You can't."_

 _And she turned on her heel and stomped away._

This is _not_ what my life was supposed to be.

 _When she got to the bottom of the hiking trail and was absolutely sure she was alone, she finally let herself burst into tears and cry._

* * *

 _She went back to their apartment._

 _Only long enough to gather up her necessities._

 _And hug Scruffy Sam . . ._

 _"I'm sorry, Sam."_

 _. . . goodbye._

 _And then she went . . ._

 _"I told you men suck, honey."_

 _"Yeah, I know."_

 _. . . to Jenny's._

 _Cried, ate ice cream, ripped up his pictures, slept._

 _He called two days later._

 _"Annabel, I love you, please, we can still be together if you just get an abortion-"_

 _She hung up the phone._

 _Sometimes you do things simply because you don't know what else_ to _do._

 _Like a lost little girl sitting outside the ruins of her English home holding a charred doll._

 _Or an old Armenian woman protecting her home with a loaded shotgun during an invasion._

 _First, she called Dave the Radio Man and told him Ana Darling was going permanently off air._

 _Hung up the phone to his sputtering._

 _And then she got in the car._

 _She didn't call. She didn't write._

 _She arrived home, two days later, unannounced and uninvited._

They don't go on vacations or hardly even out. They'll be there. They've got to be there.

 _She walked in the door with a broken, rageful heart and a nasty case of morning sickness._

 _Ma-Da and Ma-Ba rose from the couch, clicking off the huge remote._

 _Confused and bewildered._

 _"Annabel, darling, are you o-"_

 _"I'm pregnant and I'm not getting an abortion or putting it up for adoption and I need help."_

 _Moms' faces drained of color and she wondered if they might faint or die of shame._

 _Daddy, blank-faced and clearly in shock, frozen motionless in the hall._

 _"Oh Annabel," Bette breathed._

 _"Of course we'll help you," Dot replied._

 _And they raised their arms to their daughter._

 _And she went, bursting into tears as she stumbled into their arms._

 _They covered her with their love, their hugs, their forehead kisses._

 _Reassuring surreshes, completely accepting and forgiving, unlike the ones she had received from days prior from Patrick._

 _And when Annabel looked for her father, she saw that he was gone._

 _"Moms? Where's Daddy?"_

 _They seemed to summon brave smiles._

 _"I'm sure he'll be back soon, darling. Jimmy's very dependable."_

* * *

 _He_ was _dependable._

 _Very dependably unpredictably predictable._

 _He came home two and a half hours later, 1975 Ford red truck overflowing with a bassinet, a cradle, blankets, clothing, and various other baby accoutrements._

 _And his girls, all three of them, stared in astonishment._

 _Dot was the first to find her voice._

 _"Jimmy, she's only a month or so along. She doesn't need any of this yet."_

 _Jimmy shrugged._

 _"Well, better to be prepared, right?"_

 _Then he grinned._

 _And Annabel, having just dried up the last of her hysterical tears only minutes earlier, broke into a freshly hysterical set._

 _This time, relieved._

* * *

 _So Annabel Margaret Walker moved back into her old bedroom in her parents' house._

 _She worked almost full time in her father's grocery store._

 _She wore loose clothes and kept her eyes hidden._

 _She pretended not to hear the whispers._

 _She watched the scale slowly creep upward and her waistband tighten._

 _She watched her feet swell and her fingers sausage._

 _She felt the baby kick and wondered what it was._

 _And then, eventually, she gave birth to a beautiful, hazel-eyed, brown-haired bouncing baby girl._

 _With a complete set of fused fingers and toes._

 _Patrick showed up._

 _"A freak? She's a freak?"_

 _And she screamed and threw things at him from her hospital bed until he fled and the police showed up for the crazy lady in room 27-_

He stared at her for a long moment, clearly shocked.

"You're going to have a _baby_?"

Her heart hammered so hard in her chest, she could barely hear her own response.

"Yes."

He could have been a statue, he was so still.

And then his face burst into wonder.

"I'm going to be a father?"

And she was trembling, shaking so much she thought she would shatter.

"Yes."

And he stared at her.

 _Say something. Do something. Anything not bad._

And he did.

He grabbed her, wrapping her up in a hug so tight she could barely breathe.

But she could feel his face tucked down into her neck.

And his tears moistening the skin there.

He was murmuring something, she could sense his lips moving more than actually hear his words.

And then he sank to his knees, pressing his forehead to her still slender belly.

And she finally heard him as the hammering in her sternum subsided.

". . . leave, you never have to worry about that, I'll always be there for you, I'll always be your daddy, I'll always love you, I promise, you never have to worry about that, not ever . . ."

A continuous stream of rambling words, so very unPatrick-like.

Yet more honest, she knew, than she had ever heard him in her life.

* * *

When he had somewhat recovered and calmed, the next thing he did shocked her even more.

Leaning back, he perched on one knee and took her hand . . .

 _Oh my god, no way-_

"Annabel, will you marry me?"

And she could not speak.

But he could.

"Not because you're pregnant. But because I love you."

She didn't know how she managed to form words.

"And because I'm pregnant."

He nodded.

"Yes."

And she smiled.

"Yes."

* * *

 **Annabel's vision was originally part of an alternate storyline for a crappy boyfriend she ends up with before I/we/she discovered Patrick.**

 **And then I just wanted Patrick for her more than I wanted misery.**

 **But I still think the vision is a reasonable anxiety thing on her part.**

 **What do you think about the chapter?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing before! :D**


	52. The Whole Pregnancy Thing

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

This Whole Pregnancy Thing

* * *

So it was June.

And Annabel Margaret Walker was. . .

"You want some chili?"

"No. I'm good. Enjoy."

. . . pregnant.

And, to be honest, it really wasn't that . . .

"You want some pizza?"

"No. Thanks."

. . . bad.

She'd heard morning sickness was a real bitch.

"Do you want some granola?"

"No, thanks."

But she really didn't have any.

"Want the last peach?"

"You can have it."

She just didn't want food.

It didn't make her sick.

She never threw up.

She just . . .

"Um, you're not eating much. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

. . . didn't have an appetite.

"Do you think you should, uh, eat, something?"

 _No._

"Yeah, I guess. Um . . . how about . . . a bowl of plain oatmeal."

Confused Patrick Pause.

"No cinnamon?"

"No."

"No butter?"

"No."

"No fruit?"

"No."

"No . . . anything?"

"No."

"Um, okay."

* * *

So she was actually . . .

"Annabel?"

"Hmmm?"

. . . doing okay.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

Mostly.

"Because you're asleep."

"Yeah."

Even though . . .

"You were just talking."

"Yeah."

. . . she did feel . . .

"We were having a full conversation. About the Culture Club."

"Yeah."

. . . a little tired . . .

"And the Eurythmics."

"Uh huh."

. . . from time to time.

"And we're at the coffeehouse."

"Oh."

Usually at the most inopportune . . .

"Do you want to go home now?"

 _Uhh . . ._

. . . moments.

"Yeah."

* * *

So she might admit she was . . .

". . . could have the fourth off next month and go to the fireworks together."

"Hmmm . . ."

. . . a little tired.

And by a little, she really meant a lot.

 _Why is it so hard . . ._

"Annabel?"

"What?"

 _. . . to grow . . ._

"Do you want to go back to bed?"

 _. . . something so small?_

"Yeah."

And by a lot, she mean practically . . .

"You know what? I think I'll just . . . sleep here . . . awhile . . ."

"Uh, okay."

. . . comatose . . .

"I'll get you a blanket."

"Hmmm . . ."

. . . at times.

* * *

Except when she wasn't.

"Annabel?"

"Yeah?"

"Where are we going to put the baby?"

 _Oh._

"Uh . . ."

 _In the . . . No._

 _Over by the . . ._

 _No._

 _Next to the . . ._

 _No._

Attempt at a grin.

"In the sink?"

* * *

Which led to the next line of thinking.

"So I guess we have to move again, huh?"

The words felt heavier than they should have.

 _But I_ like _it there! God, this stupid baby is causing more problems than it's-_

Patrick shrugged and smiled.

"Well, it doesn't matter where we are as long as we're together."

 _Oh._

Then he kissed her gentle and sweet.

And she decided not to complain.

* * *

The problem was . . .

"Patrick?"

"Yeah?"

"You know I'm currently sitting on your penis, right?"

. . . that's kind of _all_ he wanted to do.

Blisteringly red-earred nod.

"Yeah. I mean with clothes-"

"And I _know_ he knows I'm here. I can _tell_."

"Yeah."

"So, uh, why aren't you, you know-"

She wiggled a little, just to drive him crazier.

Which it did not.

Instead, he worked his jaw a little.

"I, uh-"

"Don't you want to?"

"Yeah. I just-"

"Because he does."

"Yeah."

"And I'm finally feeling better."

"Yeah."

"So . . ."

Another playful wiggle.

"I don't want to hurt the baby."

Annabel sighed.

 _Ah yes, the baby. Always the baby._

But she tried to be nice.

"You won't hurt it, Patrick. I don't think you can. I mean, it's only like . . ."

Thumb and forefinger just about almost touching.

". . . that big. So it's okay."

Patrick seemed to want to believe.

"I know. I just . . . I just don't want anything to happen to it. Or you."

 _Oh._

Annabel was appreciative, grateful for his care and concern.

And she also knew . . .

"Okay."

. . . she wasn't getting any anytime soon.

 _Party pooper._

Unmounting of the man.

"Well, what do we do now?"

Reseating beside, instead of on top of.

"We could go out for ice cream."

Annabel shrug.

"Okay. But ice cream is a sorry substitute for sex."

Patrick Pause.

"It's not that sorry."

Annabel eyebrow.

"Yes, it is."

Frown.

"Sorry."

Headshake.

"Nope."

Pauseful consideration.

"Uh, thanks?"

Accepting smile.

"There ya go."

* * *

"When are you going to tell your parents?"

 _Oh._

 _Shit._

"You mean about us getting married?"

Patrick Pause.

"No. About having a baby."

 _Oh. That._

Annabel drew a deep breath . . .

 _Errr, can I fake morning sickness at three in the afternoon?_

. . . and let it out.

"No."

Patrick Pause.

"Are you worried they'll be mad?"

Annabel huff of derision.

"No. They don't really get to be judgmental people, you know?"

Patrick smiled a little.

"No. I guess not."

Pausing pause.

"Are you . . . embarrassed? . . . of the baby? . . . Or me?"

 _Oh baby, shit-_

"No, Patrick, never!"

 _I just . . . I just . . ._

"I guess I've just been avoiding it altogether."

It was true.

She hadn't told anybody anything.

Except Scruffy Sam, of course.

"So you ready for a baby to land on us, Scruffy Sam?"

Head lift-tilt, bright beady eyes scrutinizing.

"Yeah, me neither."

Head tilt to the other side, tiniest little puppers whine.

"Don't tell Patrick though, okay? It'll just be our little secret."

Quiet chuff.

"Thanks, buddy."

But other than that, nada.

Not about the pregnancy . . .

"Hey, Annabel, how's it hangin'?"

"All fun in the sun, honey bun-bun."

. . . or even their recent promise to wed.

"Whatcha got going on, Annabel?"

"Scarfin' this bagel, Nemo. How 'bout you?"

Nothing.

Mainly because she just didn't know what to think, how to feel.

What to say.

". . . spin you for?"

 _"Hey sexy, thanks for the tune, how 'bout get down and dirty in the grass later?"_

 _"Sounds fantastic, sweetie, but I've already been knocked up once this week and that's my quota."_

How to act.

 _"Excuse me, miss, but do you have a moment to talk about term life insurance?"_

 _"No. I'm too busying making eyeballs in my uterus right now. Call back later."_

And now she realized, she was ignoring the whole thing . . .

 _"Merry Christmas, Moms, Daddy. This is my child, she's fifteen now and I thought it was time for you to know I'm having a baby."_

 _"Well, hello, grandchild, nice to meet you."_

 _"Thank you. Grandma._

. . . and that was just making things worse.

"Hi, Moms!"

"Annabel!"

"Darling, how are you?"

"I'm good. So, um, listen . . ."

* * *

 **I almost didn't post such a conflicted chapter on impending motherhood. On Mother's Day.**

 **But it's realistic. For some of us anyway.**

 **And, speaking of realistic, this was me, all three pregnancies. No morning sickness. Just meh on the food.**

 **Until I wanted _all_ the food.**

 **And then, oooh, boy. _Fooood_.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for your encouraging reviews previously. :)**


	53. The Pauseiest Pauses of All the Pauses

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Pauseiest Pauses of All The Pauses

* * *

 _Oh my-_

 _-god, Sister. Our baby's-_

 _-having a baby!_

". . . it is yet but . . ."

 _I wonder if they're going to get married?_

 _Well, they certainly should! Marriage to the man you love is so-_

"Hey, girls, Jerry said there's an alligator outside chasing his alpaca. Where's that glass jar of maraschino cherries?"

 _-wonderful?_

". . . married."

 _Wait, what?_

"I'm sorry, Annabel, what did you say again?"

"I said, 'and Patrick and I are getting married'."

"Oh-"

 _Sister-_

"Darling, that's wonderful!"

 _Oh-_

* * *

"Jimmy!"

"Hey, girls, what are you doing here?"

Their lined faces were radiant with joy amid the displays of green beans and McCall's magazines.

"We have something to tell you!"

Jimmy nodded at his second.

"I'm gonna take the girls to the deli, Gregg."

Nod of affirmation.

"No problem, Mr. Walker."

The cozy deli section and dual benches hadn't changed much since the Battle of Bitch when Jimmy Darling Walker had come to realize how grateful he was for his long-loyal wives.

Maybe a bit more worn perhaps.

 _But aren't we all?_

"What's going on, girls? Everything okay?"

Everything certainly seemed okay.

Bette and Dot were grinning from ear to ear.

"We're going to be _grandparents_ , Jimmy!" Bette declared

"Annabel just called us!" Dot continued proudly.

"And her and Patrick are getting _married_!"

"Well, they're engaged anyway."

"Isn't that just the _best_?!"

 _My little girl's . . . having a baby?_

He could have laughed.

He could have cried.

Instead . . .

"Say, that's . . . quite a . . . that's fantas- wow."

. . . he just kind of babbled.

Dot tilted her head at him, Bette tilting the opposite direction.

 _Annabel's right. They really do look like they're trying to pull-_

"Jimmy, you okay?"

He nodded, summoning a smile.

"Yeah. I . . . I . . . yeah. It's just . . . she's so . . . I mean . . . she's just . . ."

Bette covered his left hook. Dot, his right.

"We know, Jimmy. We know."

And he just felt vaguely lost.

* * *

"How did they take it?"

"I think they're okay. Maybe acting a little funny but you know them."

* * *

 _They're going to be so far away._

 _Who?_

 _Annabel, Sister, who do you think? Johnny Cash?_

 _Oh. Yes._

 _It was hard enough when it was just Annabel. But now a baby?_

 _Yes._

 _We'll never see them._

 _We'll get pictures._

 _Pictures._

 _And Christmas._

 _Once a year?!_

 _Well, it's all we can ask for, Bette. She has to have her own life._

 _But I want to be a grandmother! A_ real _grandmother! Not a blurry picture Christmas grandmother!_

 _Sister-_

 _I want to bake_ cookies _and read_ stories _and take_ naps _and ride_ bikes _and take_ baths _and-_

 _Sister-_

 _And I do not want to know my grandchild through the United States Postal_ Service _!_

* * *

 _Dearest Annabel,_

 _Dot and I were so glad to hear of your newest addition to your family. We are sure you are going to be a wonderful mother and your child-_

* * *

 _Dear Annabel,_

 _Bette and I are so excited and happy for you becoming a mother. You and Patrick are going to be good parents, we have no doubt-_

* * *

"You got letters from your moms today."

"Oh, cool."

Ripping of envelope, crinkling of paper.

Silent reading.

A waiting Patrick.

"They're convinced we're going to be the best parents in the world. They're proud of us. They love us. Same old."

Annabel tossed the letters down, heading toward the bathroom to pee again.

Seeing Patrick pick it up out of the corner of her eye.

To put up with the others, she guessed.

And then she closed the bathroom door.

* * *

 _We're being supportive, Sister._

 _I know._

 _We're being good parents._

 _I know._

 _We're being what Annabel needs._

 _So you keep saying._

"Huh."

"What is it, darling?"

"How're we going to get to see the baby anyway? I mean, it's going to be all the way in Colorado and we're going to be here so how the hell does that work? How will it even know us?"

 _Sister, don't-_

"Whhhaaaaaa . . ."

* * *

"Do you . . . do you think . . . do you think your parents want to be close to the baby?"

 _The baby that's not even here yet? The baby that's still just a thing?_

"Yeah. I guess."

Quiet.

Snuffling from Scruffy Sam.

Breathing.

Cranky refrigerater.

The usual noises, nothing out of the ordinary.

"How are they going to get to be close to the baby if they're so far away?"

Annabel half asleep because, well, pregnancy.

"I don't know, we make it work, I guess."

More quiet.

Nice and qui-

"What if we need help? With the baby or we're sick or something?"

Annabel raised her head off the couch and opened one eye.

"I don't know. Why are you being so negative?"

Weighty Patrick Pause.

"I'm not being negative. I'm being realistic. We're really alone here and if it's just us that's fine."

She squinted at him.

"But?"

He clenched his jaw and unclenched it.

"But if there's a baby too and we're alone then it could get really difficult."

She waited.

Waited.

And finally Patrick dropped his doom.

"But it would be easier if we were with family."

She stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Patrick, we can't move my parents to Colorado. My dad has his store and my moms made the trip but I mean permanently relocating them would be almost cruel even for their grandchild."

He never stopped stroking Scruffy Sam's fur, as if taking comfort in it.

"I know."

Annabel felt her tension drawing out like a blade.

"So what are you saying?"

Patrick Pause.

There have been some loaded pauses in the world of dialogue and communication.

"Drop the bomb."

"But the girl You gave me made me do it."

And basically anything ever uttered by William Shatner, King of Overblown Pauses.

But none of them compared to the Patrick's pause and the ensuing sentence thereafter.

"I'm saying I think we should move to Florida to be near your parents."

 _Son of a bitch._

* * *

 **See this coming? What do you think?**

 **Thanks, brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86. I really appreciate you reviewing so graciously. :)**


	54. Sideswiped

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Sideswiped

* * *

It was crazy.

"What about my job?!"

It was insane.

"What about _your_ job?!"

It was completely ridiculous.

"I mean, they're our only means of income, Patrick!"

And once he saw that-

"We'd have no way to live without them if we just got up and left!"

. . . the better.

Quiet second, Patrick Pause.

 _Yeah, you just sit there and think about how stupid this idea of yours is-_

"There are other jobs, Annabel. Other factories. Other radio stations."

 _What?! How can you say something like that?! How could you even think it?!_

"I know Brandon is small, but Tampa's bigger and just down the road. It's not the most impossible thing."

And there it was.

Patrick just believed.

He believed in this baby.

He believed in them.

He believed in her.

And her ability to deal with this fucking, stupid idea and its impact upon her life, her very exist-

"All that matters is that we're together and safe and okay, right?"

 _Oh god._

 _Oh dear god._

And then she went and threw up.

Or thought she would.

Launched herself up off the couch, Scruffy Sam leaping down from Patrick's lap.

Scissoring nervelessly to the bathroom, nearly trampling the alarmed, now floor-level pooch in her wake, slamming the door, staggering to the toilet, crumpling to her knees, aiming for the water-

And . . . nothing.

Gasping for air, teeth gritted in anticipation.

Eyes squeezed shut.

Until she opened them.

 _Shit._

Well, not literally.

They weren't Neanderthals.

 _Shit_.

But psychologically.

Because she . . .

 _Florida._

. . . just didn't know . . .

 _Again._

. . . just what to do.

 _Shit._

* * *

She sat back on the floor then, back against the wall.

Staring six hundred thousand miles past the green toliet tank.

"Annabel?"

Patrick's mild, low-toned, calm as always voice, carefully controlled concern, respectfully distant hovering pauses-

"Are you okay?"

-was something she could not stomach, could not placate-

"Are you alright?"

-not even though the bathroom door-

"Are you okay?"

-and so she did not answer him-

"Annabel?"

-and he eventually left her alone.

On the bathroom floor

To think.

Which was exactly what she did.

Sat there and thought.

Thought about herself.

Thought about the baby.

Thought about Patrick.

 _Oh dear god, Patrick._

Patrick who'd never had a family.

Patrick who'd never had a support system.

Patrick who'd always been alone.

Patrick who-

* * *

When she opened the bathroom door, she saw he had resumed the spot she had left him in.

Sitting on the couch.

The dog . . .

 _God, where are we going to live, I don't even know where to start-_

. . . back on his lap.

Both of them slightly wary at her approach.

And she sat back down, much calmer this time.

Patrick looked at her and she could tell he was nervous.

But still maintaining all the same.

And she decided to just say it.

"You just want better for your child, don't you? Better than what you had."

He nodded as he spoke.

"Yes."

She continued.

"And you want your child to have parents and grandparents. Everybody close and taking care of each other and loving each other and not alone."

Patrick Pause.

"Yes."

"You'll do whatever I say because you love me but this is what you really want, isn't it?"

"Yes."

And Annabel sat there.

And thought.

And decided . . .

 _God, I'm glad I love you so much._

. . . to try and believe.

"Okay."

Patrick's eyes raised to hers, tentatively.

She couldn't really summon a smile of any kind, not yet.

But she did manage to suck in a deep breath.

Release an accidently audible sigh.

And speak.

"I gotta call my parents."

And Patrick smiled.

Just a little.

"Thank you, Annabel."

She didn't look at him.

She couldn't.

"Yeah."

Not yet.

* * *

Ring!

 _Oh Sister, you get it, I don't feel like talking to anyone right now._

 _Alright._

"Hello, Walker residence?"

"Hey, Ma-Ba."

"Annabel, hello!"

 _It's Annabel?! Switch to the other side! Let me hear!_

 _I thought you didn't want to talk to anybody tod-_

 _Just do it._

". . . -thing."

"Of course, darling."

"What is it?"

* * *

 _Oh, Dot!_

 _I know!_

 _Our baby's coming home!_

 _Yes!_

 _To stay!_

 _Yes!_

 _And she's bringing her baby!_

 _Yes!_

 _Oh, Sister!_

 _Yes!_

 _We have to tell Jimmy._

* * *

"Jimmy!"

The store.

Again.

"Hey, girls, what are you doing here?"

Their lined faces were once again radiant with joy.

"We have something to tell you!"

And immediately his brow furrowed.

"Wait, she's already . . . she . . . she can't be again, can she? Is that . . . even . . . poss-"

"She's coming home, Jimmy!" Bette crowed.

And his face, albeit not as much as theirs, lit up.

"Oh hey, that's great! I've been wanting to see them again."

"No!" Dot interrupted ecstatically. "She's coming home to _live_! To _stay_!"

Only a split second of a pause.

And Daddy Jimmy's enthusiasm mirrored their own.

"Hey, that's fantastic!"

And he came around the counter to them, wrapping them up in his arms in a big hook-handed bear hug -

"Our little girl's coming home!"

"We know!"

-that made them squeal in delight.

* * *

 _\- the baseboards!_

 _Don't forget the taps! We have to descale them!_

 _And we have to dust the refrigerator coils!_

 _Oh and-_

"What are you girls doing?"

"We're cleaning!"

"But it's two in the morning."

"We have to get ready for Annabel and Patrick!"

"But . . . they're not going to be here for another two we-"

"Jimmy, where's the WD-40? The door under the sink is so squeaky!"

"Uhhh . . ."

* * *

 **So lots of drama and emotions all around, huh?**

 **Lots here too. Thank goodness I sent all my hyper students home and made it to summer break. *collapses _under_ couch, twitching***

 **How are you all?**

 **Thanks to my loyal reviewers (who guessed this new development; too predictable?) brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for still reviewing. :)**


	55. Surreality

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Surreality

* * *

So they were doing this. They were really doing this.

Moving.

Again.

All the way home to . . .

". . . Wednesday, we can get there by Friday."

. . . Florida.

Ma-da and Ma-Ba had insisted they come on when they were ready.

Take Annabel's old room back . . .

". . . as you want, darling."

. . . until they found their own place.

". . . -re, even. Jimmy said he was all for it."

Work in the store while they looked for employment.

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Of course, Annabel. That's what we're here for."

And just in general . . .

". . . clothes for you!"

"Yeah, sure. That sounds nice."

. . . support them for the time being.

"Wonderful, darling!"

Which was nice.

It really was.

It just wasn't . . .

". . . -ing on the fifteenth."

"We'll be here!"

. . . what she had intended her life to be.

* * *

The apartment belonged to someone else.

The furniture.

And the heating and air.

The clothes were theirs.

The toiletries.

The sheets on the bed and the towels on the hooks.

The records and the books and the lava lamp.

The dog.

Themselves.

And of course, the damn unseen baby that was causing all this.

So, long and short of it, packing was easy.

The Moving, on the other hand, . . .

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"You're crying."

"This place is dusty. We never cleaned."

Pause, only the slighted bit tinged with muted muffled miff.

"We cleaned."

. . . was hard.

* * *

She had already said goodbye to Jenny.

"Hey, I'm sorry about your moms, they just kinda freaked me out."

 _Really? Didn't notice._

"Yeah, I know."

Big hug. Cheek kiss.

"Write me, okay?"

 _About what? Florida?_

"You got it. Bye."

"Bye."

Bye to the few people she actually cared to notify.

"-, Ray."

"Stay real, Bowie Babe."

Her landlord.

". . . keys under the mat. And thanks for everything."

"No problem, Annabel. Here's your deposit back."

"Thanks."

And, of course, Dave the RadioMan.

Two weeks previous.

". . . Florida."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Well."

The RadioMan who had opened up her world looking mildly surprised.

Annabel, feeling sick and miserable and like her life was already ending at the ripe old age of twenty-two.

Dave, nodding.

"I won't lie, Ana. Waves around here won't be the same without you."

Clenching her jaw, refusing to cry.

"But wherever you go, wherever you are, you take that Light in you and shine it out, okay?"

She nodded, trying to be brave.

 _What the light, seriously, what light do I have?_

Then he had smiled.

"And I mean it about the reference. You just give them my number and I'll tell them all about Ana Darling."

And she had to go before she cried.

"Okay. Thanks, Dave. For everything."

He nodded.

"Sure thing."

And that . . .

"Well, goodbye."

"Bye, Ana. See you tonight for your shift."

 _Oh. Yeah. Right. My life's not entirely over. Yet_.

. . . was that.

* * *

Patrick had spoken with his boss at Hammond's weeks before as well.

". . . good reference."

"Cool."

So that was all in place.

For them to leave.

And then she had basically floated through the last few days of her Colorado . . .

 _Can't believe I'm doing this. If it weren't for this baby, I wouldn't_ have _to do this._

. . . existence.

And now the time had come.

"Did you get the water bowl?"

"Yeah, it's in the floorboard."

For Ana Darling, for the last time in Colorado . . .

". . . Shift. What can I spin you for?"

. . . to spin the tunes she loved so . . .

"Can you play 'You're so Vain'?"

"Will you play 'Everything I Own'?"

"I wanna hear 'Ohio' by The Doobie Brothers!"

"You got it, man. Comin' in ten."

. . . much.

And in between sending out tunes to make the soul sing for others, she had decided to do a little for herself that night too.

She had tried to think of the perfect final selection for her final shanty.

Aria.

Strain.

Song.

It was really important.

It was the only way she could really, truthfully say goodbye the way she wanted to.

She had mulled over it for days.

Something real.

". . . Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry . . ."

A little sad.

". . . and Mondays always get me down . . ."

Probably some resentful.

". . . can't always get what you want . . ."

But with a little hope at the end too.

". . . life on Mars?"

The Light in the darkness.

". . . pretty face, welcome to the human race . . ."

Like Patrick had said.

". . . follow you, will you follow me . . ."

So she had to make sure.

". . . horses couldn't drag me away . . ."

It was right.

". . . gone with the wind, my baby's gone with the wind . . ."

Because it wasn't just about her.

". . . -right now, baby, it's alright now . . ."

It was about any of them, all of them.

". . words of wisdom, let it be . . ."

Any one out there on the waves.

". . . know why you say goodbye, I say hello . . ."

And she had to make it count.

". . . on to yourself . . ."

Patrick had taught her that.

"-render, surrender, but don't give yourself away . . ."

But she couldn't find just the right one.

". . . sound of your own wheels make you crazy . . ."

Because there were, in her heart, so many that fit all the different things she had inside her.

". . . without a bone, an actor out on loan, riders on the storm . . ."

So she would choose them all.

Her entire shift, every bit, would be pouring herself out, emptying herself into the music.

Trying to let it clean her out.

And when it was done, when her shift was over, she would say . . .

"This is my last transmission out here on the waves. I'm moving out and moving on, for better or for worse. But I will always love and remember the time I was Ana Darling and spinnin' tunes out there with you. Groove on, Night Shifters. And peace out."

. . . goodbye.

". . . seasons crying no despair . . . alligator lizards in the air . . ."

So she had said goodbye the best way she could.

And then, with the key in the mailbox and Dave's gift of vinyl . . .

"Oh cool. Ziggy Stardust."

"Yeah, I know you probably already have one. Turn it over."

"Oh. My. God. Is that-"

"Yup. That's his signature. I know a guy."

"Awww, thank you, Dave."

. . . under her arm, she had walked away from KGNU 88.5.

And her entire life as she knew it.

* * *

"I listened to your show tonight."

"Yeah.

"A lot of feelings in there."

"Yeah."

Patrick Pause.

"I was going to call in and request a song for old times' sakes."

Pause.

"But you seemed like you were working through something."

Pause.

"And since it's because of me that we're moving, I thought you might want me to leave you alone."

Pause. Annabel silence, no correction of statement.

"Feel better?"

Annabel Shrug.

"I guess."

Pause.

"Okay."

Pause.

"I love you, Annabel."

Annabel pause, no radio silence, not anymore anyway.

"I love you too, Patrick."

And then he held her all night as she cried.

* * *

And then early the next morning, they . . .

"Are you ready to go?"

 _No._

"Yeah. I guess."

"Stop at nine?"

"Okay."

. . . began their journey.

It wasn't easy.

The leaving.

Patrick and his stupid Rabbit in the lead, tiny moving thingie hauling behind.

Annabel and her Pinto, packed tight and resentful.

She cried when they left the apartment parking lot.

She cried when they left Westminster.

And she definitely cried when they left Colorado, the mountains distancing in the rear view mirror.

And she only stopped . . .

"Are you okay?"

 _Don't touch me, you bastard._

"Yeah."

. . . when they stopped for a restroom break and food somewhere in the flat, Florida-bound vastness of stupid Kansas.

And more Kansas.

And stupid Miss-

"Long day."

"Yeah."

-ouri.

"Want to get a bite to eat?"

 _No, but I'll watch you choke on it._

"Sure."

* * *

She hardly said word during their brief moments together, not even to . . .

"Do you want to take him for oa walk with me?"

 _Not unless we can walk back to Colorado._

"Sure."

. . . Scruffy Sam . . .

 _I bet_ he _wants to go back home, don't you, Sam?_

. . . the Sublime.

* * *

And at night . . .

"Did you sleep well last night?"

 _No, you dumbass._

. . . she dreamed . . .

"Yeah, I guess."

. . . of her mountains.

"I thought I heard you crying sometimes."

 _God, can't I escape anything? Even in my sleep?_

And woke up . . .

"Nope. Slept like a log."

. . . crying.

"Okay."

* * *

 **So not exactly a smooth trip.**

 **But at least no car wreck, right, midnightrebellion86?**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing!**

 **And thanks to the silent readers as well.**


	56. Welcome Home

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Welcome Home

* * *

"Annabel!"

"Patrick!"

"We're so glad to see you!"

"Welcome home!"

Rib-cracking hugs.

Cheek-smooching kisses.

From the Tattler sisters anyway.

Jimmy Darling, the father, hung back.

Let them have their moment.

Finally . . .

"Hi, Daddy."

Inner-cheek gnawing uncertainty.

"Hey, Annabel."

Quiet, uncharacteristic reserve.

"I'm sorry if I disappointed you, Daddy, I-"

Gush of anxiety.

"Annabel-"

Burst of genuine love and reassurance.

"No, no, Annabel, no . . ."

Daddy dimpled smile, outstretched arms.

". . . no . . ."

Glinting hooks in the blazing Florida afternoon sun.

"I've just . . ."

Voice choked with tears.

". . . never seen you so all grown up before."

And a little girl in her daddy's arms once more.

And it was the Tattler sisters and the orphan boy's turn to hang back.

Let them have their moment.

Until . . .

"Hey, Patrick."

"Sir."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

Knowing smile from a man who'd lived a lot of life.

Welcoming nod since an incoming hook might have induced an unnecessary trigger of panic.

"Good to see you again, Patrick. We're glad you're here."

"Thank you."

Another moment as the father kissed his daughter's blondish head.

"Well, what's say we get out of this heat and have some iced tea? Unpack later?"

"Sounds good."

"And bring the pup. He looks like he could use some water."

"Come on, Sam."

Tail wag. Happy trot.

And the family . . .

 _Wonder what the neighbors are thinking._

 _Oh, who gives a damn._

. . . all together again.

In Florida.

* * *

Iced teas all around, sugared to tooth-aching perfection.

"When did you get a new chair?"

"Oh, when was that delivered?"

"Last week, I think?"

"Wow. You guys never buy anything new."

"Well, we didn't want anyone to have to sit on the floor."

"Unless you want to."

"Yes, unless you want to."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

And it _was_ nice.

And she _was_ grateful for their judgement-free, welcoming love, and warm acceptance.

 _Unemployed knocked up daughter comes home with unemployed boyfriend._

 _Parents buy chair, provide iced tea._

 _Daughter bloated and grateful._

But another layer, one hidden further down inside, buried deep enough in her well of emotions so none of them would ever know it-

 _They're buying . . . furniture. Well, that's . . . permanent_.

Moment of quiet.

Broken by-

"So how are you feeling, darling?"

Concerned Ma-Ba.

"Oh, uh, okay. Tired."

"Well, you look wonderful."

Lying Ma-Da.

"Thanks."

 _Destroying my entire life suits me then, okay_.

"How far along are you?"

"Uh, two months? I'm not exactly sure."

"You haven't been back to the doctor?"

 _Hell no._

"Not since they started talking about abortion and adoption."

Stunned silence. Pale faces. Suddenly trembling tea.

"Well . . ."

Cleared throats, resolved faces, determined smiles.

. . . we'll just start from scratch then, won't we?"

 _Back in Colorado?_

"Okay."

* * *

"- room!"

Pause.

 _Hang on-_

"My bed looks different."

"We got you a new one!"

"That twin bed just wasn't going to be big enough!"

"Patrick needs room too!"

"Especially with a baby on the way!"

The last word practically sung.

 _As if I could forget._

Silence from Annabel.

Patrick smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Walkers."

* * *

There were other differences too.

Extra towels ready in the bathroom.

Additional chair in the living room.

More food in the cabinets, more milk in the fridge.

And more smiles, more excitement, and more joy all around.

From the Walker elders.

Sam, the car-free dog.

And . . .

"So, what do you think, guys? Think we can pull this off?"

 _Sure, we'll be just like the freaking Waltons._

"Yeah, Mr. Walker, it's great, thank you."

 _And there's John-Boy._

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

 _And of course good ol' Pa._

. . . Patrick the orphan boy who just wanted a better life for his unborn offspring.

* * *

"Annabel!"

"Hey, Aunt Lucy."

 _When did she start getting old? Oh Jesus, I'm depressed._

"You look so wonderful! How are you?"

"I'm good."

"I'm so glad. You look wonderful."

 _Why does everyone keep saying that? It doesn't make it true._

"Thanks."

"Hello, Patrick! It's so nice to see you again."

"Hello, Ms. Barrett."

"I'm so glad you both are here. There is no better family than this one right here."

"Oh, Lucy, don't make me cry-"

"Well, it's true! Patrick, did they tell you about how they saved my life?"

"No, they wouldn't, would they? Well . . ."

 _Oh god. She's going to make him do that not-cry thing._

* * *

"- and meatballs for your first night home, Annabel!"

"It was always your favorite!"

 _Yep, 'cause I was going to get fat anyway._

"Yeah. Cool. Thanks."

* * *

"This garlic bread is delicious, Mrs. Walker."

"Well, thank you, Patrick. The recipe is so easy."

"Would you show me?"

"Sure!"

 _Do you think he really means it, Sister?_

 _He seems to. Look at how happy he is._

 _What about Annabel?_

 _Well, pregnancy is hard. And she's had a long trip._

"Can I have some more meatballs there, girls?"

"Of course!"

"Wow, you sure are packing them away tonight, Jimmy."

"Yeah, yeah, they're awful good."

And they were.

But . . .

"Darling? Are you . . ."

"Jimmy, what-"

" _Daddy_! Are you feeding meatballs to Sam?"

Guilty double amputee caught in the act, meatball dangling from one hook.

Ecstatic under the table canine eagerly awaiting yet _another_ morsel.

"Well, just a little, he really likes-"

"Daddy, no! He's gonna shit like crazy everywhere now!"

"Oh, sorry-"

"Annabel!"

* * *

"- store tomorrow, Patrick!"

"Oh, cool. That sounds great!"

"What about you, Annabel? Should I show him the ends and outs of the grocery store business?"

"Yeah. Sure."

 _Joy_.

* * *

Scruffy Sam the Sublime's digestive system hadn't begun its onslaught by the time . . .

". . . both and there you have . . ."

. . . The Facts of Life rolled around.

So that was something, she supposed.

"Tootie, where do you think you're going?"

 _Colorado, I bet. Lucky little twerp._

* * *

"Big day."

"Yeah."

"You comfortable?"

 _Not as comfortable as I was in Colorado._

 _But sure._

"Yeah."

Quiet.

Breathing.

"Are you okay?"

 _Hell no._

"Yeah."

Patrick Pause.

"Annabel-"

No doubt heart felt concern suffocated in a nauseating fog of -

"Good grief, Sam-"

. . . smelly, air-permeating . . .

"I _told_ Daddy."

"I know. He didn't realize-"

"I guess he will now."

"Yeah."

. . . dog . . .

 _See? His butt doesn't like Florida eirher._

 _Can we go home now?_

. . . farts.

* * *

 **So you might say Annabel's not handling this well.**

 **And you'd probably be right.**

 **But it will get better.**

 **Eventually.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing _and_ thanks to creepy camp for adding your support to this story! Exciting! :)**


	57. Working Through Something

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Working Through Something

* * *

It was a good store, no doubt about it.

Worn down and smoothed out in all the right places.

Old wood and old life.

And that smell that never really quite goes away and doesn't smell entirely bad, just more familiar to the lizard brain than anything else in the world forever.

Oh, and . . .

"- groceries."

"Yeah."

Jimmy, looking around, feeling proud of the place and warm and giving to the boy who'd never had something to be proud of.

"Well, whaddya think?"

Pause.

Yes, the boy had seen it before.

"It's nice."

But not with eyes of permanence.

With eyes of interest.

Jimmy nodded.

"I know Annabel said you were going to look for another factory job."

Jimmy pause, nothing compared to a Patented Patrick Pause.

"And you can do that if you want, no problem."

Shrug, glance at the boy.

"Or . . . you know, you can work here."

The boy's hazel eyes listened intently.

Jimmy shook his head, face casual.

"It's not much. But it pays the bills."

Another pause.

"Feels good, giving people what they need."

Slightly amused nudge of the Family Circle magazine rack.

"Well, maybe not _always_ 'need'."

Quiet creaking of settling wood.

"And you know, it's a family business so . . ."

A muscle worked in the boy's jaw.

Almost inaudible response.

"I'm not family. Annabel and I aren't even married yet."

Dimpled Jimmy smile.

"I wasn't family either when I first got here. The girls and I weren't married either."

The boy didn't respond.

"Do you want to talk to Annabel first?"

Relieved nod of the head.

"Yeah."

Daddy of Annabel grin.

"Yeah, that's probably smart."

And in the quiet of the canned yams, they chuckled.

Together.

* * *

"- job."

Annabel nodded.

Great.

Fantastic.

Wonderful.

Patrick had a job.

At the store.

With her dad.

Selling groceries.

Which was good, it was.

But . . .

"I guess we really are here to stay, huh?"

Patrick pause.

"Only if you're okay with it."

 _No, of course, I'm not okay with it._

 _We're in freaking_ Florida _._

 _For freaking_ ever _, it looks like._

 _God._

She summoned a smile, biting down on her resentment and loathing.

For the entire situation.

And everybody attached to it.

"Yeah, sure."

Patrick Pause.

"I mean, we talked about it. We agreed-"

Shaking of the head, turning away, dismissive wave of the hand.

"Yeah, Patrick, I know. I said yes, okay? It's good, okay? It's fine, it's all fine."

Hesitant pause.

"Okay."

* * *

And so Patrick, the Midnight Candyman of Hammonds, started going to bed early every night.

"- work in the morning."

"Oh. Yeah. Okay. Sure."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

While Annabel stayed up late by herself.

Scruffy Sam having gone to snuggle to sleep with his _real_ master.

Listened to her only real lifeline to the world that she cared about.

". . . hungry like the wolf . . ."

The radio.

"Annabel? You okay?"

"Yeah, Daddy. I'm sorry to bother you. Do you want me to turn it down?"

Errant wave of a long sewn-up stump.

"No. It's fine. Just up for a glass of water."

Annabel laying flat-out on the floor with her head near the transistor, turned down low.

Streetlamp filtering dim illumination through the limp-lace curtains.

Staring a million miles past the ceil-

"You sure you're okay?"

"Peachy keen, jelly bean."

"Okay. Good night."

"Good night."

* * *

And then in the morning, Patrick, newest proud employee of Clark's Grocery, got up bright and early.

". . . work."

Annabel, wanting to be buried under a mountain of blankets.

"Fjdkvhrb-bye."

Unable to due to the freaking _heat_.

"I love you."

"Tbskvut - ve you too."

* * *

Sleeping until ten when it was _decent_ for ex-midnight radio jockeys to wake up.

Alone and abandoned.

Scruffy Sam the Sublime having gone off to bask in the presence of the two headed, sweet-talking ladies . . .

"- yes, you are, you sweet thing -"

. . . who secretly fed his digestive tract only the tiniest morsels of leftover breakfast bacon and sausage.

Annabel, staggering out of bed, bleary-eyed, disheveled hair a mess, slouching onto the couch somewhere before ten-thirty.

"Good morning, darling!"

Smiling mothers . . .

 _Do you think she's okay?_

 _Pregnancy is difficult._

"Would you care for some break-,er, brunch, Annabel?"

"Just coffee, thanks."

"The baby needs to eat, Annabel."

Lounging all day, reading . . .

"What do you have there, Annabel?"

"I don't know. Pet Semetary?"

. . . avoiding human interaction . . .

"We're going to step over to Lucy's. Would you like to come?"

"Uh, no. I'm, uh, tired."

"Oh. Okay."

. . . helping with housework . . .

"What do you think, Annabel?"

"Think it's time to buy a real indoor dryer?"

"Yeah, sure. Jump into the modern age."

. . . and, of course, preparing supper.

"Annabel, come help us cut these potatoes."

"I'm pregnant, Ma-Da."

"You're not broken, Annabel. Come help us."

And finally, at the end of the day . . .

"Hey, there's my girls!"

"Jimmy!"

"Darling!"

"Hi, Annabel."

"Hi."

. . . greeting the returning men.

The victorious . . .

"I tell ya, Bette, you wouldn't believe it."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Dot, it's like our boy Patrick here was born to the grocery store business!"

. . . manly . . .

"Annabel, he's a natural! Really got a talent for it."

. . . providers.

"It just cans of peas and boxes of macaroni, Daddy. It's not rocket science."

Volley of scorn.

Smooth attempt of deflection in the form of a devilish wink in Patrick's quiet, passive direction.

"Ah, come on, Annabel, give him some credit. It's dairy products too!"

Casual, good-natured chuckles all around.

The sullen Annabel.

 _Milk and cheese._

 _Thrilling._

* * *

"Wow, warm today, isn't it?"

"It wouldn't be in Colorado. But you know that, don't you?"

It started out relatively small.

"Have you seen my blue shirt?"

"Maybe you left it at home. You know, in Colorado."

Leaking of the well, as it were.

"Do you want to go out tonight?"

"Oh sure, to the thriving metropolis of _Brandon_? It ain't Boulder, baby."

Comments here and there.

"I'm going to take Sam for a walk. Do you want to come with us?"

"To Colorado? Yes."

Then it started to grow.

"Annabel, are you okay? You've been in the bathroom a long time."

Like a fungus or something.

"I'm fine. Just summoning a teleportation ray to beam me home to Colorado."

Choking the joy of life from their living garden of, well, life.

"Do you want some grilled cheese for lunch?"

"No. Grilled cheese without bacon and Denver fig spread is stupid, Patrick."

"Okay."

* * *

And it didn't just happen when pregnant Annabel was jonesing for some bacon and Denver fig spread-laced grilled cheese.

For some reason, every commercial and tv show on the planet drove her crazy.

"Pan-Am flights. Taking you there."

"Can it take me to Colorado? 'Cause I would take that flight."

It pretty much happened . . .

"Like Soda. Caffeine free. What do you Like?"

"Colorado. Next question?"

. . . anytime . . .

"I pity the fool!"

"You should pity me. I'm in _Florida_."

. . . she was conscious . . .

"-ile! You're on Candid Camera!"

"Oh thank god, I knew I was having a bad dream. I dreamt I was in Florida."

. . . and opened her mouth.

"You know what we should do? We should take a day trip to Disney World after the baby is born and you're feeling better. I hear Space Mountain is fun."

Like she had . . . mood poisoning or . . .

"Disney World's _expensive_ , Patrick. And we don't have any money. In Colorado, we could climb mountains for free. And they didn't have dumb names either."

. . . something.

* * *

"I thought Annabel liked Patrick."

"She did. In Colorado."

"Does she not like him in Florida?"

"Apparently not."

Moment of quiet consideration.

"I don't like this, Jimmy."

"Neither do I, Bette."

Another moment of quiet.

"It's cruel."

"It's hurtful."

"It's hateful."

"She _abusing_ him."

"I know, Dot."

"Something _has_ to be done."

"I know, I know."

* * *

 **Five stages of grief, anyone?**

 **Well, except the fifth. She ain't quite to acceptance yet.**

 **Obviously.**

 **Thank you most sincerely to reviewers, midnightrebellion86 and brigid1318.**

 **See you for another post soon!**

 **Daddy Jimmy's going to have something to say about all this.**


	58. Listen Up, Dear Darling Buttercup

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Listen Up, Dear Darling Buttercup

* * *

"How're ya doin', Annabel?"

Bright, sunny, Florida Sunday afternoon.

"I'm fine, Daddy. How're you?"

Toolin' around.

"Oh fine. Can't complain."

 _Warm_ sunny afternoon.

"How's the baby?"

Mucha nothin'.

"Oh, you know. There."

Boring.

"Yeah."

Brandon Boring.

"Well, uh . . ."

Closing in on three stupid weeks of Brandon freaking _Boring_.

"Listen, um . . ."

Clearing of the Dad throat.

". . . I know this isn't where you want to be right now. And I get that and it's fine."

 _Freakin' fantastic, thanks for your permission to hate my life._

"Now, uh, tell me. How do you feel about us?"

 _Huh?_

"What do you mean?"

"Well, do you like your mothers and me?"

 _Duh. God, why are you being so weird?_

"Yeah, of course, I love you guys."

Daddy shuffle, deep chest sigh.

"Okay. Well, what about Patrick? I know he's the reason you're here."

Annabel eye roll.

 _Ugh, don't remind me._

"Yeah?"

Working of Daddy jaw.

"Well, is he good to you? Does he treat you alright?"

More eye roll.

 _God, Dad._

"Yeah. Of course. I mean, you see. We live with you, right?"

 _Do you think I would be with him if he wasn't a good guy?_

Nodding, Daddy nodding.

"Do you still love him? Do you still want to be with him?"

 _The hell?_

"Yeah. Sure."

 _Father of my child and whatever._

Working of Daddy Jimmy jaw.

Shuffling. Then stop.

"Well, then . . . could you stop being such a bitch to him please?"

 _Daddy!_

"I know you don't like it here and I know he's the only real reason you're here and not in Colorado."

Daddy pause, as if steeling himself against hard truth-telling that might hurt his poor, dear, pregnant daughter's feelings.

But needed to be said.

For the other person who probably wouldn't stand up and say it.

"But he doesn't deserve your spite and hate about it. He's only trying to do the right thing for his family. And you did agree to it."

She was enraged, she was incensed.

"Is that what Patrick does in the store all day?! Just whine and moan and bitch about his hateful, pregnant girlfriend?!"

Her father gave her a look she could only term as withering . . .

 _Now who's being a bitch, Daddy-_

. . . and spoke.

"No. He never says a word about it, Annabel. He's too loyal to you."

Dad pause, then continuing on through this heap.

"But I'm not blind. And I'm not deaf or stupid either. And neither are your mothers. You've been showing the whole, wide world and everybody in it how much you hate that boy."

 _How dare you-_

"And he hasn't done anything to deserve it but love you and this baby."

 _God, I'm just tired, everybody gets tired, and I hate it here and I'm just-_

"And if you can't learn to make the best of it and find some kindness in you for him, maybe you should pack up and go back to Colorado. At least there you won't treat him like shit."

 _What?!_

* * *

"Hello, darling. Where's Annabel?"

Bette. Dot. Patrick.

Strawberry Cheesecake. Now temporarily abandoned.

Pointed Jimmy look.

"She went for a walk, to think. I'm sure she'll be back after while."

 _Sister?_

 _If she calls from Miami again, Patrick's going to get her this time._

 _No, let the boy have his cheesecake; he's been through enough._

 _Good point._

"Would you like some cheesecake, Jimmy?"

Errant wave of a hook.

"Naw, but save some for Annabel. I'm sure she'll be ready for some when she gets back."

* * *

Annabel Margaret Walker was walking.

Just like her dad, her _father,_ had suggested she do.

And as she walked . . .

 _God-_

. . . she thought.

 _-so stupid._

About everything.

 _I just . . . I just . . . I've just been stressed about making things work here and I'm freaking pregnant and oh, come on, it really does suck here, not like Colorado at all-_

Which just didn't change the fact that . . .

 _Why is he even putting up with me if I've been that bad?_

. . . even though she didn't want to admit it . . .

 _I mean, come on, everybody gets cranky sometimes._

. . . Daddy . . .

 _And it's not like I've been cheating on him or beating him or something._

. . . was fucking right.

 _Shit._

But she _had_ been beating him, hadn't she?

Patrick.

Caveman clubbing him over the head.

One-two punching him in the heart.

Rabbit kick double-dutches to the soul.

With her words.

All the time.

A little jab here.

An uppercut there.

Kick to the back of the knee.

Slice to the tendon.

All with her words.

And Patrick was tough, orphan boy that he was, he could take it.

He had motivation, he had reason.

His child, with her.

And he had grace, he had mercy, and long suffering-ness.

Just like the preachers had always said love was supposed to.

But did that really give her the right to whale on him just because she could and he'd let her?

Just because he was believing so hard for both of them?

While she said and did as she pleased just because she felt like it?

No.

And what she felt like now . . .

 _Oh god._

. . . was sick.

Sick at heart and sick at mind.

Sick to death of being angry and hateful and spiteful and snarky all the damn time.

Sick to death of being _here_.

In freaking _Florida_.

But that wasn't going to change, was it?

Nope.

So she had to get over that part.

She had to stop.

And she had to change.

She _had_ to.

But how?

* * *

Man on the couch, book . . .

"You've _never_ read The Hobbit, Patrick?"

"Um, no."

"Here, take our copy. Read it."

"Oh, uh, okay. Thanks?"

. . . in hand.

"Hey, Patrick."

Woman on her feet, fidgeting nervously.

"Hey, Annabel."

Pause.

"Are you okay? Is the baby-"

"No. I mean, yeah," she stammered, already feeling like this was not how she had meant to do this. "I just . . ."

 _Shit_.

"I just wanted to say . . ."

 _Shit, shit, shit._

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

Patrick's silent eyes, those hazel orbs she hoped their child had, turned to her.

"I talked to Dad, well, he talked to me, well-"

And he, of course, didn't say anything.

"Anyway, he made realize I was taking my homesickness for Colorado out on you. And that I had to stop."

At least not yet.

"And I wanted to say . . . I'm sorry for being such a bitch to you lately."

And Patrick sat there, mute as always.

While Annabel waited for him to say something.

Anything.

Well . . .

 _"Thanks, Annabel. I appreciate that. But now that you've shown me your true colors, it's too little too late. I'd rather live in a cardboard box than be with you. I'm going home to Colorado tomorrow. Don't follow me. Ever."_

. . . almost anything.

And finally, he did.

"I guess I was just letting you work through it or something."

Pause.

"It's been a big adjustment. For all of us."

Pause.

"And I guess I just was hoping you'd get it all out and be okay."

Annabel took a deep breath and spoke the truth.

"I wasn't. I was getting worse."

Nod of the head, pat of the scruffiest of Sams.

"Yeah. I know."

Annabel hedging.

"You knew I was being a bitch to you?"

Patrick Oliver Anderson, now possibly feeling trapped in a potentially lethal bomb field of responses.

Still the briefest hints of sardonic aggravation passing through his features.

"Yeah."

Dumbfounded, ashamed Annabel.

"And you put up with it?"

Another nod.

"Well. Yeah."

Annabel stared at him.

"Why?"

Patrick Pause.

"Because I love you. And I was hoping you'd come back to me and be okay again."

 _Whoa._

 _Okay._

"Damn."

And Patrick nodded.

"Yeah."

* * *

Apologizing was relatively easy.

A handful of words.

A few awkward minutes.

The only real difficult part, the swallowing of her pride.

"I'm going to work on it, Patrick."

"Okay."

"I love you."

"I love you too, Annabel."

"Can I have a hug?"

"Always."

Then came the real work.

". . . -ny day in Brandon, Florida where the temperature is a sweltering ninety-five degrees with a index of one hundred and two . . ."

 _I bet . . . I bet I could get a great tan today._

The accepting.

"Hey, Patrick, want to go to the Tastee Freez tonight?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, the baby wants strawberry ice cream."

"Sure."

The retraining.

"I pity the fool-"

"- who doesn't have an awesome canine like Scruffy Sam the Sublime, amirite?"

And sometimes . . .

"Are you okay, Patrick? You're, like, panting from taking out the garbage."

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just . . . like . . . the air is really thick down here sometimes."

. . . on particularly bad days . . .

"Yeah, it's easier to breathe the thinner, drier air in Colorado."

. . . the simply keeping her damn mouth shut.

"I mean, you know . . ."

Which she had varying levels . . .

". . . if we ever wanted to go back . . ."

. . . of success . . .

". . . to visit someday . . ."

. . . doing.

". . . or something."

Patrick Pause, loaded with decision.

"Yeah."

* * *

 **Well, I hope that was as cathartic for you as it was for me!**

 **I haven't liked Annabel much lately. But she told me this was how she felt. And I have to tell her story honestly, right?**

 **And now she'll have to work her way out of it. Which is the next story arc that we'll start next weekend! Along with some other, more fun stuff. :)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing!**


	59. Jump In With Both Feet

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Jump In With Both Feet

* * *

So they had had been home just about a month.

Annabel, pregnant.

Out of wedlock.

And living at home.

With her employed-by-her-father boyfriend.

Not exactly a rousing success for a twenty-two year old college graduate.

But it was going to be okay.

It was going to be fine.

They would get married, they would get jobs.

Oh, and have the baby.

And everything would be fine.

Just.

Freaking.

Fine.

* * *

". . . house and get married."

There.

She had said it.

Come right out in the middle of the mashed potatoes and gravy and said it.

Court house.

Civil ceremony.

Paperwork.

Signed and stamped and filed.

Married and done.

Done.

Checked off the list.

And it didn't matter anyway.

It was just a formality.

She loved Patrick and Patrick loved her and they were going to be together forever whether or not they were officially licensed and whatever.

She could even just file paperwork to legally change her name to Anderson if she wanted to.

Or, even simpler, just give the baby the last name of Anderson when it was born.

Not that it meant anything special anyway.

Anderson wasn't a family name.

It was just a name given to Patrick by the nuns.

So, really, it wasn't a big deal.

Getting married.

It was just . . . a thing.

* * *

"Yeah, sure, you guys can do that. If you want."

Jimmy's mouth was half full.

"We can also do, like, a real wedding."

As he shrugged.

"You know, in the backyard."

And gestured.

"That's what Lucy and Dan did for us. It was really nice."

Annabel nodded automatically.

She knew. They had told her the story.

The magical lights. The arch thing.

The music.

The heart-swelling poignancy of the perfect, golden evening.

But there was one, teeny, tiny, little problematic detail.

"But Mr. Clark's dead. He can't marry us."

Brutal statement.

Harsh.

Probably a little cruel.

She decided to blame it on pregnancy hormones.

But really . . .

"So that's out."

. . . she was just feeling a little frustrated and bitter.

About life.

In general.

But. She. Was. Working. On. It.

Patrick remained quiet.

And Jimmy, the temporarily clouded sunny-sider.

And Dot.

Bette, on the other hand . . .

"Well, what if you could?"

. . . just wasn't letting it go.

"Marry. In the backyard. Or even in a church, I mean."

Annabel shrugged, fighting down a lump of rising bile and a falling of tears.

"I don't know, I mean, yeah, but . . ."

 _Why wish for something that I can't have?_

And then she ran for it, the bathroom door slamming behind her.

* * *

"Are you okay?"

Averted eyes.

"Yeah."

Closed off body space.

"Are you sure?"

Screaming 'go away'.

"Yeah."

Patrick, ever pausey, did so.

And then spoke.

"Okay."

* * *

"Can you guess who we just happened to run into the other day, Annabel?"

"Rocky Balboa."

Not exactly hateful.

She was being funny.

And her mothers rolled their identical eyes.

"No, smart aleck. Reverend Miller."

"Ah."

"I told him little Annabel was all grown up and getting married."

 _Lovely_.

"He asked who was officiating the wedding."

 _There they go._

"We said you hadn't chosen."

 _Verbal ping-pong._

"He asked if we'd like to use his church and allow him the honor of marrying you."

 _I'm gonna be sick._

"Oh. Uh, really?"

 _I was never this sick in Colorado._

"Yes. We told him we'd ask you what you wanted to do."

"Since it's your wedding and all."

 _I'm definitely gonna cheese._

"Oh. Uh. Sure. I guess."

Hopeful mommies.

"So it's okay?"

Embarrassed Annabel.

"Yeah."

Mixed with a little bit of. . .

"Well, we'll call him up."

. . . nausea.

"Okay."

* * *

"So my moms want to have my old preacher marry us. Like, in a church and everything."

Patrick Pause.

"Really?"

Annabel picking at the bedspread.

"Yeah. Crazy, huh?"

Patrick Pause, accompanied with Shrug.

"I think it sounds nice."

 _Of course you do._

"But it's stupid! I haven't gone to church in forever, I'm already pregnant, and we don't even have bridesmaids or anything!"

Patrick's gentle hands stroking Scruffy Sam the Sublime's sublimely scruffy fur.

"Why is that stupid? To let people do nice things for you?"

Sigh of frustration.

"Because . . . because . . . because it's just a big facade! They don't care, why should they? I don't even belong here; I haven't for years! And I'm not perfect little Miss Priss either. Why would they even care?!"

Patrick quiet for a moment, like he was putting his words together real carefully.

Which he probably was, almost always was.

"I don't think it's a facade. I think they feel like you belong. Your parents are different enough that I think of they didn't want to, they'd just ignore your family or . . ."

 _They're all going to laugh at you! They're all going to laugh at you!_

". . . do bad things to them."

Quiet.

"I mean, it just seems nice, Annabel. There's nothing wrong with nice."

* * *

"I know we already agreed to get married."

Annabel raised an eyebrow.

 _I literally have no idea what he's going to say next._

"Yeah?"

Patrick Pause.

 _My pregnant nerves can't take much more of these pauses right now._

"But we didn't do everything."

 _I got pregnant; we did enough._

"Annabel . . ."

Patrick got down on one knee.

 _Really?_

Again.

 _Baby, what are you-_

"Will you marry me?"

 _Well, yeah, I mean I already-_

And then he pulled out The Ring.

It wasn't much.

Sparkly little thing.

Princess cut blink of a diamond.

On a gold band.

"Oh Patrick . . ." She breathed. "You didn't have to . . ."

He smiled gently.

"I know. But I wanted to."

And then he slipped it on her finger.

And she collapsed into his arms.

And kissed him with tears in her eyes.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

And decided she would wear it forever.

* * *

"Thank you for going with me to pick out the ring, Mr. Walker."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

"No problem, Patrick. I'm glad she liked it."

Pause.

"Ya know, I was so nervous about proposing to Bette and Dot, I took them on a walk."

Grinning diffident smile.

 _So long ago._

"I just kept walking and walking. And then it was like I couldn't _stop_ walking, ya know?"

Refusal to scratch the back of the neck with a hook.

"I can't imagine what they thought."

Quiet listening Patrick smile.

"Anyway, I'm glad you both are happier."

"Me too. Jimmy."

Nod of approval.

"There ya go."

Pause.

"You're doing alright, Patrick. I'm proud of you."

Grateful Patrick Pause.

"Thank you."

* * *

Moms. Daddy.

Lucy.

Kathy and Thomas.

Patty and her horde.

And that really . . .

Not even enough to fill up the first pew.

. . . was about it.

Or so she thought.

And that was fine, that was okay, she hadn't even anticipated having a wedding anyw-

". . . and his wife, Mrs. Casteel and her friend Darlene, do you remember we saw Georgia out on a walk the other day, well . . ."

"What are you guys doing?"

Ma-Da beamed at her.

"We're trying to think of all the people we've been inviting to the wedding!"

Annabel felt lost.

"But why would they want to come? I don't know them."

Ma-Ba smiled gently.

"But they know you, Annabel. And they know us. And they want to come."

Her incomprehension was still clear.

"But . . . but . . . why?"

Jimmy shrugged.

"Ah, everybody loves a wedding, honey. Just relax and enjoy it."

Annabel floundered.

"But . . . but how are we going to feed them all?"

Moms looked simultaneously proud of themselves.

"Potluck! And we're making the cakes!"

Again Annabel felt lost.

"Cakes? Like more than one?"

She had been to Patty's wedding so long ago.

But she hadn't really been paying . . .

"Hey, George, bum a cig?"

"Yeah, just don't tell your dad. His hooks freak me out."

"Naw. He just uses 'em to steal Moms' donuts."

. . . much attention.

"Yes, cakes. The bride's and the groom's."

Oh.

"Why do we each get a cake? I thought a wedding is a together thing."

"We don't know . . ."

". . . but surely you're not going to question cake, are you?"

And now Annabel grinned.

"No."

Her moms looked satisfied.

"All right then."

* * *

So there was going to be a church and a real preacher and actual guests and cake and _more_ cake.

And Annabel . . .

". . . freaking me out, Patrick."

"Why?"

"It's just too much. Plus, all of them would be looking down their noses at me if they knew I was pregnant."

A moment of contemplation.

"Well, then, I'm glad they don't. Nothing's too much for you. Just enjoy it and don't worry about it."

She side-eyed him.

"How come you're not freaking out about this?"

He smiled, brushed her face with a gentle touch.

"Because I think you deserve everything good."

It must have been pregnancy hormones that made her eyes water.

"But what about you?"

Pink Patrick ears as he replied with little to no self-consciousness.

"I get the best part. I get you."

And then she really did . . .

 _Damn pregnancy hormones._

. . . cry.

* * *

 **Okay so, still a process?**

 **But she might be getting there, I think.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for reading and reviewing. :)**

 **See you again tomorrow for another update!**


	60. So Much Time, So Little To Do

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

So Much Time, So Little To Do . . . Strike That, Reverse It

* * *

Bette and Dot Tattler Darling Walker felt like crying a little too.

 _We need bridesmaids!_

 _Bridesmaids?_

 _Well, at least a Maid of Honor!_

 _They're usually friends of the bride._

 _Annabel doesn't really have any friends here!_

 _Well, what about Patty?_

 _They're supposed to unmarried, I think._

 _Well, Patty is definitely married._

 _Oh and that means we need a groomsman for Patrick!_

 _Best man._

 _But he doesn't know anybody here at all!_

 _Oh, um, well . ._ .

* * *

 _They have to get wedding bands!_

 _Oh, you're right, of course they do!_

 _We are never going to finish this list._

 _At least we only have one._

 _Oh there's more than one list, Sister._

 _No, daughter._

 _Oh. Well, that's true._

* * *

"Jimmy, we need you to do something."

His wives, those wedding planning madwomen, were looking at him expectantly.

 _"_ Hey, always happy to be of service, _ladies_ ," he replied with dimpled, with only the tiniest bit of suggestive charm.

They were his loving wives.

And he was a distinguished man of age after a-

"We need you to take Patrick to get a tuxedo."

 _Oh._

 _Okay._

He recovered quick with another, more appropriate smile.

And a nod of reassurance.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, no problem."

Only the slightest of hesitations.

"How do I do that?"

* * *

"Good afternoon, welcome to Gregory's of Tampa. I am Gregory. How may I help you today?"

Jimmy Darling Walker . . .

"Hey, uh, hi. Hello."

. . . was totally and completely out of his element.

"I'm looking for a wedding tuxedo."

And was, in true Jimmy fashion . . .

"Oh, how delightful. Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, sir."

. . . not letting it deter him in the least.

"Oh no, not me. I'm already married."

Slight awkwardness. But then of course he rallied.

"Patrick here, my future son-in-law, _he's_ getting married. To my daughter."

Arm carefully around the back of said future son-in-law.

"Oh, of course, my apologies. Yes. Congratulations to _you_ on your upcoming nuptials."

Pink-faced, obviously pleased Patrick.

"Thank you."

Briefest of double hook considerations.

"I, uh, typically the groom's father or brother comes in with him."

Jimmy shrugged, expression unconcerned and casual to offset the awareness of Patrick commencing to freeze next to him.

"Eh, well, we ain't exactly what you'd call 'typical'."

The middle-aged, mild-mannered store owner summoned a smile.

"Yes, I gathered as much."

Recovering, redirecting, restarting.

"Well, we aim to please."

Turning to the man to whom attention _should_ be directed.

"Now, Mr, -"

Brave Patrick Pause.

"Anderson."

"Anderson. Excellent. What are you thinking of?"

Patrick appeared bemused for a brief moment.

"Getting married."

And Jimmy Darling Walker felt a grin break out all over his face.

 _Man, I love this guy._

* * *

Well, it was blue.

Baby blue.

With a white vest and white shoes.

And, wow.

It was, to the muted displeasure of the shop owner, a rental.

Though he kept his amicable personality as he removed the measuring tape from around his neck and gestured for Patrick to step forward.

"Alright, young man, let's get you ready for your big day, shall we?"

Patrick Pause.

"Okay."

* * *

 _It's blue._

 _Yes._

 _Baby blue._

 _Yes._

 _Does he know it's blue?_

 _I believe so, yes._

 _And it has tails._

 _Yes._

 _Alright then._

"We love it."

* * *

"So . . ."

 _Just tell her, Sister._

". . . Patrick's tuxedo is blue."

"Baby blue."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Long stretched-out moment.

Then-

"That's awesome! Oh I'm so glad he didn't get something super boring like plain old black or so weird like complete white."

Momentary pause.

Then-

"I should do some sort of accent for my hair or something to go with it!"

 _Alright-_

"That'd be wonderful, darling."

* * *

"Thank you, Jimmy, for taking care of that."

"Yeah, yeah, no problem. No problem at all."

Jimmy pause.

"I'm sorry it's blue."

Casual shrug from Dot, causing Bette to tilt over and back up.

"It's what he likes. And she likes. We're happy."

Jimmy nod.

Exchange of grins.

"You know, what I think Patrick really is being here with us, you know? He really seems to like-"

"- the attention?"

"The food?"

"The love," Jimmy concluded. "The togetherness."

They smiled, pleased and warm.

"And so do I."

Then he kissed them sweet, one at a time.

And they kissed him back.

* * *

 _We need somebody to take photographs!_

 _Oh good grief, sister, I forgot all about that!_

 _Who do we ask?_

 _Why would I know that?_

 _Errr . . ._

 _Umm . . ._

 _You know who we need-_

 _Yes-_

 _Should we?_

 _Immediately._

* * *

. . your help, Kathy. Planning Annabel's wedding."

"Oh, Dot, I thought you'd never ask!"

* * *

They had worked on it, morning and night, for more than two weeks.

Visited the fabric store time and again.

And then impulsively invited the cashier to the wedding.

And just when they thought the needle would fall off the sewing machine . . .

 _What do we do about the veil, Sister?_

 _We throw the lace over her head and sew to her face, Bette._

. . . it was done.

"Oh Moms . . ."

* * *

And it was perfect.

Shiny white satin.

Scallop neckline, puffed sleeves.

Lace. Beads.

Then their hopeful daughter deflated somewhat.

"I guess though . . . I guess I'm not supposed to wear white though?"

"Why?"

Annabel shrugged helplessly.

"Pregnant."

And her conjoined mothers felt a rush of protectiveness.

"Darling, that's not anyone's business but yours and Patrick's."

"We simply won't mention it."

"We didn't mention it to Reverend Miller."

"And if they want to do the math later and question it, then that's their business."

"Now do you want to try on this dress or don't you?"

And Annabel finally smiled.

"Yes, please."

"That's more like it."

* * *

She looked . . .

 _Oh Sister._

 _Yes._

* * *

It must be good.

The dress.

Ma-Da and Ma-Ba were already in tears.

And she didn't even have the shoes on or her hair done or-

She turned and . . .

 _Oh my god._

. . . saw herself.

 _I'm . . . I'm . . ._

 _I'm in a wedding dress._

 _My wedding dress._

 _I'm in my wedding dress._

It was so pretty.

The sleeves were so puffy, the lacy neckline perfect.

Satin and shine and . . .

 _Oooh, I . . . I . . . I . . ._

"I love it."

She meant to say it aloud, to thank her moms properly.

But it came out as a whisper because her hands had involuntarily come up over her mouth when she had seen her appearance in the full length mirror.

"Moms-" she tried again.

But her voice failed her and her hands simply stretched out behind her to them.

And her mothers stepped up, her wonderful, special, perfect mothers who had put up with her every day of their lives and still loved her.

And they put their arms around her and kissed the sides of her head.

And they all giggled in their tears.

* * *

 _Oh my lord, they haven't registered._

 _What?_

 _For wedding gifts!_

 _Bette! Stop coming up with things to do! The wedding is in two weeks!_

 _But they're supposed to register!_

 _Oh, it doesn't matter. You heard Kathy. Everyone's just going to get them a toaster anyway._

 _Well, what do we do?_

 _Just tell people they don't have anything. It's practically true._

* * *

"Bette, Dot, I want to talk to you. And Jimmy."

"Is everything okay, Lucy?"

"Yes. Can we have Jimmy here too?"

 _Good lord, what is going on?_

 _I have no idea._

"Of course, Lucy, just let us call him up."

"He's at the store."

* * *

 **Lots to do for the Walkers, eh?**

 **I'm so glad I eloped; I couldn't have handled all this.**

 **And whoo, '80s fashion! *facepalm***

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellions86 for still being out there! You guys are great! :)**


	61. Cheesecake, Among Other Things

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Cheesecake, Among Other Things

* * *

"So, wedding's almost here, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Excited?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Daddy, _yeah_."

Doubtful expression, wavering on concern for dear darling daughter.

"Well, 'cause you don't seem that excited."

Huff from bride-to-be. Stubborn silence.

"I am, Daddy. I'm just . . . I'm just . . ."

Drawn-out pause, probably as a result of living with and around that King of Pauses, Patrick.

"I'm just having trouble thinking because I'm so hungry!"

Misbelieving chuckle of relief from the hook-handed father of the bride to be.

"Well, then, why don't you eat something then?"

Grumpy pout.

"Because I don't want to grow out of my dress!"

 _Oh Annabel-_

"Honey, you're getting married, you're pregnant, and it's three in the afternoon. Have a bite of cheesecake."

* * *

 _Are you sure we took the measurements right?_

 _Of course we did._

 _Well-_

 _Just an inch or two?_

 _Maybe a third more._

 _Don't say anything to Annabel._

 _Wouldn't dream of it._

"Okay, are you good, darling?"

"Yeah. Do we have any more pimento cheese?"

 _Better make it a half inch._

* * *

"Hey."

Things were going along swimmingly.

"Hey."

For the most part.

"I've missed you."

Usually.

"I was only gone to work."

Except for one little thing.

"I know. I just . . . missed you."

"Oh. Well, I -"

"Hello, darling! We- oh!"

 _I've gone blind!_

 _You have not._

 _Yes, yes, I have! I'll never see right again!_

 _Sister, she only had her hand on his crotch._

 _My baby!_

 _Well, she's already pregnant, I think that -_

 _My only child!_

 _They've spent Christmases sleeping in her room._

 _Oh, I'll never be able to face-_

 _Okay, Bette._

"I think we forgot something outside, be right back."

Blushing berothed.

"Oops."

* * *

"Ah, boy, that was a good meal, Bette, Dot."

"Yeah, thanks, Moms."

"Thank you, Mrs. Walkers."

Long drawn-out sigh of contentment from the head of the round table.

The father.

The provider.

The pater familias.

The-

"Hey, whaddya say we take a walk this evening, girls? Get some fresh air? Maybe a bite of ice cream?"

"Oooh, ice cream, that sounds go-"

"No, no, Annabel. Sorry. This is a date just for us old folks."

Wink, wink.

"But you and Patrick could have the house to yourselves for a little while if you want."

"Maybe an hour."

Chirped Bette.

"Or an hour and a half, even."

Conceded Dot.

"Unless we go to a movie," Daddy Jimmy mused thoughtfully.

"Then it'll be even longer."

 _What is going- oh._

* * *

"Wow. I - wow."

"Yeah."

"That was . . . awesome."

"Yeah."

"It's been a while."

"Well, it's been a while since we've done it like _that_."

Huge, heaving gasps of breath.

Sweaty, glistening skin.

Satiated bodies and minds.

Staring the ceiling.

Wondering how much Scruffy Sam had heard from the living room.

Not particularly caring.

Quiet.

For a few moments.

"What're the odds that your parents purposely left us alone tonight after what happened this afternoon?"

"You mean so we could have _good_ sex? All the odds."

Patrick quiet.

"I should be embarrassed."

Pause.

"But I think I'm just grateful."

Annabel breathless laugh.

"Yeah. Me too."

Quiet.

"You wanna go again?"

"Yeah. But give me five minutes."

"In five minutes, I'll be in the kitchen eating cheesecake."

"There's cheesecake?"

"Not in five minutes there won't be."

* * *

"So where are you going on your honeymoon?"

"What honeymoon?"

"Well, you're getting married, aren't you? You need to have a honeymoon."

Annabel confusion.

"Why would we have a honeymoon?"

 _Because you cannot come home and have marriage sex in my house without me on sedation, young lady!_

 _Sister-_

"Because it will be fun. And we want you to have fun."

"But, but we don't have any money, where would we go?"

Sly smiles.

"What a good question."

"We're glad you asked."

 _What's going on?_

"Clearwater Beach across from Tampa is said to be one of the most beautiful beaches in Florida."

"And it has some very affordable hotels."

"With continental breakfasts."

Her moms looked very pleased with themselves.

But the problem remained.

"But we don't have any money saved for a honeymoon."

Shaking of the heads.

 _Oh dear darling Annabel._

 _When will you learn to trust us?_

"We're paying. Three day honeymoon vacation."

"Not very far."

 _But far enough away so we can't hear you have marriage sex._

 _Sister-_

"If you like."

 _Because we would like._

 _Sister._

 _Well, wouldn't we?_

 _Sigh. Yes._

* * *

"So my moms want to send us to Clearwater for a honeymoon."

Small Patrick smile.

"That'd be nice but we don't have any mon-"

"They said they'll pay."

Patrick quiet.

"Patrick?"

* * *

"Mrs. Walkers? I'd like to talk to you please."

Open, warm smiles.

"Why, of course, Patrick."

"What can we do for you?"

Serious face.

So serious in fact that they set down their baking.

 _Sister?_

 _I don't know. But I'm not making a cummerbund for the dog._

 _Oh that would be so cute-_

And came right on over to the table.

Patrick gestured.

They sat.

He sat.

And spoke.

"Annabel told me what you wanted to do. For a honeymoon."

 _Yes. Clearwater sex, not Brandon sex._

 _Sister-_

"Yes, Patrick?"

 _He looks worried, Sister._

 _Well, it shouldn't be about the condoms, Sister, she's already pregnant._

 _Would you stop it? I-_

 _Hush, he's talking._

"- right about it."

Light confusion.

"What?"

Red ears, slow, carefully formed speech.

"I said, I don't feel right about it."

Pause.

"I don't want you to think we moved down here to leech off of you. First the housing and then the job and the wedding and now this."

Another pause, this one more agitated in nature.

"I don't want you to think I would take advantage of you just because we're in a tight spot and we don't have anyone else."

 _Oh, Sister._

 _That must have hurt to say that._

 _Look at him._

 _He's so precious._

 _I love him._

 _I do too._

"Patrick," Bette began, reaching out for his hand. "We don't think that at all."

"In fact," Dot continued, taking his other. "We've never been more sure that you are not."

"A lot has happened in our lives," Bette skimmed lightly. "And we have not always been the best of people."

Dot nodded in agreement. "But we know you are one of the best people we have ever known."

"You're just starting out here," Bette went on. "And with a baby already on the way."

Dot ignored his reddening face. "And in this economic climate."

"Let us help you now," Bette implored. "And then when you've got a handle on it . . ."

". . . then we'll be proud to hand over the reigns to you," Dot surreshed.

"Because that's what family does," Bette informed the silent boy. "They take care of each other."

"And it'll make us happy," Dot concluded. "You want to make us happy, don't you?"

Just enough cheek in the statement to make the boy smile.

"Yes, ma'am."

They smiled, hands grazing each side of his face, stroking gently as any mother could.

"Good."

* * *

"What did you say to my mothers?!"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because they added an extra day to the honeymoon!"

"Oh."

"And a dolphin watching tour!"

"Wow."

* * *

 **I have never been on a dolphin watching tour.**

 **But if I did, I would either be comatose from the overdose of Dramamine I would have to take, or be barfing on a dolphin.**

 **So it's just as well. *shrugs***

 **Thanks always to dedicated reviewers, midnightrebellion86 and brigid1318!**

 **Next up, the wedding!**

 **(It'll be a few days.)**

 **See you soon! :)**


	62. Six Pence in Your Shoe

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Six Pence in Your Shoe

* * *

"Oh darling it's just-"

"Oh Annabel I can't-"

They had been crying off and on all morning.

Annabel Margaret Walker was, frankly, starting to feel a little bit soggy.

But . . .

 _You only get one wedding day._

 _I hope._

. . . so she was taking it all in stride.

"Moms? Moms, are you okay, do you want me to-"

Blotchy identical smiles.

"No, darling-"

"We're just so, sob, _happy_ for you!"

But somehow they made it out the door just the same.

* * *

It wasn't the biggest church in the town.

But it wasn't the smallest either.

And it was _packed_.

And decorated, nearly, to death.

Adorned and festooned with flowers and ribbons and all manner of wedding accouterments.

Annabel gaped.

"Ma-Da, Ma-Ba, did you guys do all this?"

Bette's hand squeezed her sister's hand in joy.

 _Oh, Sister-_

 _I know._

"The church ladies did. Once they found out who was getting married, they just went all out."

Garland and bouquets and decorative bells and a special white carpet.

It was beautiful. It was an outpouring.

It was . . .

"I . . . I can't do this."

. . . possibly a little overwhelming.

A whispered sentence, an exhalation of breath.

Muttered too low for average human hearing.

Caught nevertheless by the super powered hearing of a double set of mother ears.

 _Sister-_

 _Stay calm._

"Darling, what do you mean?"

Their young daughter's mouth opened and closed several times like a fish out of water.

"It's . . . too much and everyone will be looking at us and they'll be looking at my eyes and-"

Her mothers' hands closed lightly on her shoulders.

"Darling?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to see Patrick?"

An exhalation of desperate relief.

"Yes."

* * *

"Hey, Patrick."

"Hey."

Full tuxedo. Full pomp and circumstance.

Very un-Patrick-like.

 _Where's my music man?_

"You okay?"

 _There he is._

"Yeah."

Patrick Pause.

"Are you sure?"

And she tried to hold on.

Just as long as she could.

"I'm scared to death, Patrick."

He managed a wan smile.

"Yeah, me too."

They stood there, afloat together in a sea of impending matrimony.

"I mean, I've lived my entire life feeling invisible and unimportant. And now everyone will see me. Everyone will be looking at me. I'm terrified, Annabel."

Another pause.

Another wait.

"And I know before I said it was all okay but . . ."

Pause.

Annabel picked up his pieces.

"It's just so much?"

Slightly bewildered nod.

"Yeah."

Guilty pause.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed to say that 'cause you're-"

Annabel reached for him, not only seeing her husband before the wedding but actually _touching_ him too.

"No, Patrick, I _know_. I feel the same way. It's crazy. All this for us?"

And it felt so good. To return to one part of her center.

Him.

But Patrick wasn't done bringing her back.

"All for you. Because of you."

And as she melted, he smiled.

"You look beautiful, Annabel. You look perfect."

Patrick pause.

"So I'm not going to worry about any of those people out there."

Caress of a gentle hand.

"I think I'll just keep my eyes on you."

 _Oh, Patrick-_

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Guys? It's time."

 _Huh?_

* * *

So the wedding was almost at hand. The actual ceremony itself.

And everybody was waiting.

And Annabel had everything she needed to be ready.

She had her hair.

All feathered and sprayed.

Makeup. Just the right amount of rouge and eyeliner.

And the dress, absolutely perfect.

It paid to have live-in seamstresses at her beck and call.

Barely let out to accommodate the slightest of bump a four month pregnant belly.

"Look, darling, you can't even tell."

And the truth was, she couldn't.

Well. _She_ could. On the inside. A little.

There was, like, a _solidness,_ a mass that hadn't been there before.

 _Is that you, kid?_

But from the outside, in this wedding dress, nothing.

So the dress.

New.

The panty hose-

 _God, it's like, it's trying to kill me. Who the hell invented this?_

-the shoes.

 _I want my sneakers._

Garter belt-

"Uh, what is this for, exactly?"

"I think it's supposed to be for good luck."

"For whoever catches it."

"It should be for good luck that Patrick doesn't stroke out slipping it off my thigh in front of all those people."

And of course . . .

"Oh, Ma-Ba. Ma-Da."

. . . the veil.

Lovely white lace, trailing down her back.

Attached to her head, not by needle and thread as her mothers had jokingly teased they would do if there was one more blessed thing that needed to be done.

Something much simpler, more comfortable.

And much more meaningful.

Rather than sewing, hotglueing, stapling, or otherwise affixing the damn thing to their dear daughter's smooth skull, they had instead opted to attach it to a white Tattler-Walker sister headband that would only slightly mar the perfectly coiffed hair of their only daughter.

"It's your borrowed, darling. If that's alright."

"Oh, Ma-Ba, Ma-Da, yes . . ."

The blue.

Nail polish to match Patrick's tuxedo.

"Don't you just love it, Moms?"

Um-

Well-

"Of course, Annabel."

"It's lovely."

An old penny, 1960, the year of Annabel's birth, affixed to the underside of her right shoe.

Six pence in your shoe.

* * *

But she still couldn't do it.

Walk down the aisle.

Not without . . .

"Hey, Annabel."

"Hey, Daddy."

. . . her father.

Square-shouldered and proud Jimmy Darling Walker.

Complete with . . .

"I hope you don't mind too much. They were the first hands I ever held you with."

. . . worn, wooden Massimo-carved lobster claws.

And Annabel smiled.

"No, Daddy. They're perfect. They're you."

And she kissed his dimpled cheek.

His dark eyes glistened . . .

 _Oh god, Daddy, not you too._

 _. . ._ only briefly . . .

 _I'll never make it if you cry._

. . . and then he rallied.

"Okay."

Greatest showman on earth smile.

"You ready?"

She shook her head, more girl than woman.

"No."

* * *

And Jimmy Darling Walker raised a questioning eyebrow at his little girl.

She was ethereal and perfect and pregnant.

And shaking.

And he just couldn't leave her alone.

"Really? I mean, he's waiting on you down there. All you have to do is get to him."

She still didn't speak.

And he could feel her trembling.

Arm wrapped around his, blue fingernails on full display.

And she was drowning.

"I mean, if you don't, your mothers may just."

Dot and Bette.

He knew they loved him.

Had for thirty years.

But this new guy, this boy who loved their daughter.

He was pretty special too.

Proudly walking the mother(s) down the aisle just before them.

As was traditional.

Right smack dab beside their non-traditional.

So the Tattler-Darling-Walker twins were already in position.

And it just might behoove Annabel to act first.

Before they in their adoration . . .

 _"Who, uh, takes this Patrick?"_

 _"We do, Preacher! He's just the sweetest thing to come out of Colorado in forever!"_

 _"He even worked in a candy factory, can you believe it?!"_

. . . snatched him up and took him away.

His darling precious daughter seemed to just manage a chuckle.

Before turning those beautiful, half-Ma . . .

 _Do you see her, Ma? Do you see her?_

. . . eyes toward him.

And smiling.

"Thank you for being here, Daddy. I love you."

His aging heart swelled in his only slightly shrunken chest.

And he smiled for his baby girl.

"I love you too, Annabel."

Then he watched as she drew in a breath, drawing up a little as she did so.

And faced the door, stubborn chin slightly raised.

"Okay. Let's go."

* * *

There was pomp.

And there was circumstance.

There was the right music.

And the right audience interaction.

And . . .

"Who gives this woman to be married?"

Confident, proud Jimmy Darling Walker.

"Her mothers and I."

. . . the right words.

But not exactly the 'right' procedure.

Instead of releasing his daughter, stepping back, and sitting down next to his precious wives, now loyally flanked by Lucy and Kathy, Jimmy Darling Walker did the unheard of in terms of wedding ceremony decorum.

He released his daughter, yes, to go stand next to Patty Higgins, Maiden of Honor and Only Attending.

And stepped forward and up.

Once, twice.

Three, four times.

To stand, quite proudly, thank you very much, next to his future son-in-law.

As Best Man.

 _"Mr. Walker?"_

 _"Jimmy."_

 _"Jimmy."_

 _Pause._

 _"I don't know anyone here but you."_

 _Pause._

 _"And I know I'm not supposed to but . . . I feel like . . . if I could choose . . . could you just be my best man?"_

 _Pause._

I am Jimmy Darling Walker and I will not cry.

 _"I'd be honored, son."_

 _Pause._

 _"I know it's not what we're supposed to do but-"_

 _"Patrick, let me just stop you right there and give you some advice. You know, as someone who's never had a traditional wedding before."  
_

 _"Okay."_

 _"It's your damn wedding. Do whatever the hell you want."_

 _Quiet chuckle._

 _"Okay."_

 _Pause._

 _"Well, then, would you be my best man?"_

 _"You got it, Patrick."_

 _"Thank you. Jimmy."_

 _"Dad."_

 _"Dad."_

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, in the sight of God and man . . ."

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for continuing to review!**

 **Well, what do you think?**


	63. Now That You're Married And All

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Now That You're Married and All

* * *

So Annabel Margaret Walker was . . .

"I do."

"Then by the power vested in me by the state of Florida, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

. . . now married.

Annabel Margaret Anderson, officially.

And by all rights, her and her new life partner . . .

"We should be having sex right now."

"I know."

. . . should be secreted away in a broom closet somewhere . . .

"Why aren't we?"

"Because this lady is about hug you, I think."

. . . partaking in a little matrimonial bliss.

"Oh Annabel . . ."

Instead . . .

"Look at what a fine young lady you grew up to be!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Kenning."

. . . she was stationed at the beginning of the longest . . .

 _Not that I was ever really paying attention before._

. . . reception line she had ever seen.

"Well, Annabel! What a fine young man you've caught for yourself!"

 _Like a marlin?_

"Thanks, Mr. Dodd."

And there appeared to be no way out of it.

"Oh, Annabel, you may not remember me but . . ."

* * *

"Oh, before you eat, wedding party pictures!"

 _But . . . but . . . food._

"Okay, first, just the bride and groom . . ."

"Patrick."

Nearly inaudible whisper.

"Yeah?"

"If I kill her, can I eat her?"

Pause.

"I think that's cannibalism, Annabel."

"Okay! Perfect. Now let's bring in Moms and Dad!"

"But I'm _hungry_ , Patrick."

"I know."

* * *

The reception hall.

Finally.

 _If they ate all the food, I'm going to hurt somebody. I'm very pregnant._

But there was food.

And people.

And Scruffy Sam the Sublime, of course.

Scruffy Sam, who had excelled in his role as . . .

"Have you the ring?"

 _Release the puppy!_

. . . adorable ringbearer.

Trotting right up the center aisle, pillow harness rigged up to his little back.

Golden wedding bands gleaming atop.

Patrick . . .

"Good boy, Sam-"

. . . untying them.

And Lucy dropping some Milkbones to lure him to her side.

As she held tight to Ma-Da . . .

"There's a boy-"

. . . who cried nearly nonstop if Annabel's peripheral vision was any judge.

So Sam had earned his praise . . .

"What a sweet pooch! Will he be your only child?"

. . . and Milkbones.

 _Errr-_

* * *

The food . . .

"Here, Patrick. Try this."

"Okay. What is it?"

. . . when they finally got it . . .

"Patrick, here. Try this."

"Okay. What is it?"

. . . was good.

"Here, Patrick. Try this."

"Okay. What is it?"

She thought.

Even though . . .

"Patrick. Try this."

"Okay. What is it?"

. . . she couldn't really focus to taste much of it.

* * *

". . . what to say. I mean, Annabel, your moms and I are so proud of you. We just can't begin to tell you."

The Daddy toast.

"And Patrick, we couldn't ask for a better addition to our family. We love you."

Full of pointed, meaningful pauses.

"And thank you to everyone who brought food and gifts and decorated and showed up."

A side effect of Patrick probably.

"We just can't tell you all how grateful we are for all of you."

Or the sniffing back of tears. Either way . . .

"So, I don't know."

. . . it was nice.

"Let's eat, huh?!"

* * *

"Okay! Are you ready to cut the cake?"

"Only if I can _eat_ the cake!"

* * *

Dancing.

They had talked about it.

The first . . .

"In front of everybody?"

"It's not sex."

"I know but-"

. . . slow dance.

"Are you saying you don't want to?"

"No, I mean, we're supposed to. I just-"

"Patrick, do you trust me?"

Only the slightest pause, barely just enough to seem to force himself to breathe.

"Yes."

"Okay."

. . . dance.

"And now, the bride and groom will have their first dance."

Husband. Wife.

Hand in hand. Facing each other.

Ready for their first . . .

"Oh. Okay. Um, from Annabel. To Patrick."

. . . dance.

". . . golden years . . ."

As husband and wife.

". . . gooooold . . . wha wha wha . . ."

Surprised Patrick grin.

"What did you-"

Mischievous Annabel shrug.

"Do you remember the first time I played this song for you?"

Blushing Patrick.

"Yeah, of course. But . . . it's not . . ."

Squinchy Annabel face.

"I do what I want."

". . . stick with you baby for a thousand years . . ."

"I love you, Annabel."

"I love you, Patrick. Now let's dance!"

* * *

 _If he always sounded like this, I'd be a fan too!_

 _Just keep dancing, Sister!_

 _I would . . . but I can't breathe!_

". . . nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years . . ."

"I don't know, girls, I kinda like this song! Sounds like one for us!"

 _Ooooh, we're too old to spin!_

 _Says you!_

* * *

"One, two, three!"

She tossed it back the bouquet. Watched them go.

 _Wow, it's like they're fighting over Scott Baio or something._

* * *

 _There's rice in my bra, there's rice in my bra!_

* * *

 _Oh. My. God._

 _What did they do to the poor Rabbit?!_

* * *

"Okay, so everything is already set up . . ."

". . . so all you have to do is show up . . ."

". . . and give them your names."

Which was awesome.

Only an hour away.

Nothing much of a drive.

And Moms and Daddy had said . . .

"But I'm not promising I won't take one of those toasters. Ours is on its last toast, I think."

"Dad _dy_."

. . . they'd take care of the wedding presents and all.

". . . walk him plenty, don't worry."

And Scruffy Sam the Sublime, of course.

So all Patrick and Annabel had to do was . . .

"Hello. Um, Mr. And Mrs. Anderson checking in."

 _Oh my god, I can't believe you said that! Hee!_

. . . get there.

* * *

The honeymoon suite was . . .

"Wow."

. . . gorgeous.

"Oh my gosh, like, I can't stay here. I'd have to sleep on the floor!"

And a little intimidating.

"No. You're going to sleep in that bed like the princess you are."

Swept up. Lace and frills flying.

"Ahh, Patrick! Put me down!"

And, grinning, he did.

Right down on the silken sheeted and comforter-ed bed.

"Oh my gosh, it's so soft!"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Where they promptly woke up . . .

"Patrick?"

"Huzzzzzzz-"

"Patrick?"

 _Where's the on switch?_

"Oh, Mr. Annndersooon?"

"Mmm, I'm awake . . ."

 _There it is._

. . . two and a half hours later.

* * *

 **Yeah, so, they fell asleep first. Big day. And I know people this actually happened to, ha.**

 **And once again, so glad I eloped. But I wanted them to enjoy a good celebration.**

 **Thanks, fantastic reviewers, brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86! I'm very grateful you're still out there! :D**


	64. Afterglow

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

AfterGlow. Or Hangover. Maybe a Little Bit of Both

* * *

Getting older was hard.

 _Oh my head._

 _Oh my knee._

They found that out the morning after the wedding.

And Jimmy . . .

"Dammit."

"Are you alright, darling?"

"Yeah. Just . . . my stumps ache."

. . . didn't seem to be faring much better.

Truth be told, they didn't move much at all the day after Annabel Margaret Walker became Annabel Margaret Walker . . .

 _That's a lot of names, Sister._

 _She says she likes them all._

. . . Anderson.

They ate toast with butter for breakfast.

Jimmy let Scruffy Sam . . .

"Don't crap in my begonias, okay, Pooch? We'll walk later."

. . . into the backyard for a while.

And then they just sort of . . . existed for a while.

". . . other news, Texas is bracing for what meteorologists are calling the storm of the year . . ."

"Now what the hell am I supposed to do about that?"

"Nothing, Jimmy. It's in Texas."

In their quiet little suburban house . . .

 _I wonder what Annabel and Patrick are doing right now, Sister._

 _Do you really want to know?_

 _No._

. . . in Brandon, Florida.

* * *

In the afternoon, they sorted through the multitude . . .

 _I think this is another toaster._

 _Alright, put it with the others._

. . . wedding presents stacked in Annabel and Patrick's room.

Waiting to be opened, waiting to be appreciated.

Waiting . . .

"Well, at least you both can write thank you cards at the same time. Ya know, it's amazing how you girls do that-"

 _I'm not writing all these thank you cards, are you?_

 _Hell, no. Annabel's got five more months until this baby is born. Let her do it!_

. . . for thank you cards to be written, apparently.

* * *

In the afternoon after a light lunch of sandwiches, they fell asleep . . .

 _Oh, isn't Jimmy so sweet asleep in his chair with Sam on his lap? Sister? Sister?_

 _Snnnoore._

. . . on the couch until . . .

Briiiiiing!

 _Oh you bastard of a landline._

Briiiiiing!

. . . the phone rang.

"Hello?"

 _If it's not Sean Connery, I'm hanging up._

"Hi, Mrs. Walker. It's Patrick."

"Oh, Patrick! Hello, darling. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, I, uh . . ."

They swore they could hear him blushing . . .

 _Dear sweet boy._

. . . over the phone.

"I just, uh, wanted to to check in on Sam."

 _Precious child._

"He's fine, Patrick. He's got plenty of water and food. He's been outside in the backyard for a while this morning. We're taking him for a walk after supper."

"We were taking a nap when you called."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"No, darling, we just meant everything's alright."

"Oh. Okay. Thank you for taking care of him."

"Of course, darling."

"Are you enjoying your honeymoon?"

Furious phone blushing.

They could _feel_ it.

"Yes, uh, yeah, thank you."

"Good. Is there anything else you needed?"

"No."

"Alright then. Better get back to . . ."

 _All the sex with our daughter._

 _Sister!_

". . . honeymoon, darling."

"We love you."

"Alright. Thank you. Bye."

"Goodbye."

"Everything okay, girls?"

"Right as rain, Jimmy."

* * *

Suppertime was such a quiet affair . . .

"Chicken's good."

"Thank you."

. . . they thought they might have gone deaf . . .

"What's in this sauce on it?"

"Hidden Valley Ranch."

. . . without Annabel's chit-chatting.

"Ice cream?"

"Mmm, maybe just a little."

* * *

The walk was nice.

 _Ooh, my feet._

 _That Bowie._

If a little tough on their aches and pains.

And Sam . . .

"That's the fifth bush you've peed on, boy. Aren'tcha running on empty yet?"

Good-natured tail wag.

. . . seemed to enjoy it too.

* * *

And the evening . . .

"I'm allergic to bullets. Especially those headed into my direction."

 _Good one, Face._

. . . proved to be more of the same.

"Girls, I'm kinda tired. Wanna go to bed?"

"We couldn't agree more."

"Sam, don't wake the neighbors with prank calls, okay?"

Tail wag.

"Good boy."

* * *

Boy, did she love watching him walk around in those cutoff jean shorts.

 _Mmm, thighs . . ._

Toward her and away.

 _Oh yeah. That ass._

Were both pretty good.

 _And look at that chest._

The Florida sun . . .

 _Just the right amount of hair._

. . . just loved him.

 _Mmm . . ._

And so did second trimester Annabel.

"I called your parents this morning while you were in the shower."

 _Who? What?_

"To check in on Sam."

 _Oh, right. Sure._

"He's doing okay."

 _Of course._

"Was that okay?"

 _Why not?_

"Of course, they're your family too now."

 _Not exactly parents, that'd be weird._

"Cool."

 _Speaking of people who've done it . . ._

"Hey, you wanna go back to our room and have sex?"

"Yeah."

 _Yeah, you do. I'm gorgeous._

* * *

"Ouch!"

The sunburn hadn't shown up immediately.

"Oh, I'm sorry, baby. I didn't realize you'd burn so badly."

It had taken a few hours.

"Ouch!"

Some sex.

"Sorry. Listen I'm gonna find some aspirin for your pain and honey for your skin, I'll be right back."

A meal.

"Honey?"

And an impromptu vacation nap, even.

"It's what my moms used on me."

And now it had announced its presence.

"Uh, okay."

And it was _pissed_.

"And then whatever I don't use on your shoulders and your back and your face and your arms and your feet, I can lick off of other places."

But even so . . .

"What's left?"

. . . that was no reason to . . .

"Oh, I'm sure I can find something."

. . . call off the honeymoon festivities _entirely_.

* * *

Truth be told, with the exception of the honey, which proved exceptionally sticky and almost impossible to get off . . .

"Housekeeping. Here are your clean sheets."

"Thanks. He was . . . sunburned."

"Uh huh. Do you need fresh towels too?"

"Yes."

. . . it wasn't a whole lot different than before.

"What should we eat for supper?"

She supposed it would have been if they hadn't, well, consummated earlier.

Lots.

But if they hadn't consummated earlier, they wouldn't be pregnant and probably not married at this moment either.

And most definitely, likely, not in Florida.

But, as it turned out, Florida, at least Honeymoon Married Florida, wasn't too bad.

There was, of course, the aforementioned . . .

"What are you smiling at, Annabel?"

"You."

"Oh."

. . . beach.

And whale watching.

"Oh my gosh, did you see that?!"

And the Aquarium.

"What was that?!"

"A leopard seal."

The trolley and, separately of course, the ferry.

"Uhhh . . ."

"Are you going to be sick, Patrick?"

"No, I don't . . . I don't think so."

Pier 60.

"This is what some people do every day?"

"Some. I guess."

And the Botanical Gardens.

"Wow. That's beautiful!"

"Right?"

None of which Patrick had ever . . .

"What do you want to do tomorrow, Annabel?"

 _Watch you enjoy all this._

. . . experienced before.

* * *

"We have to go home tomorrow."

"Yeah, But it's still today so . . . sex?"

"Sure."

* * *

"I'm a little hungry."

"Oooooh, tacos!"

"But it's, like, nine at night, Annab-"

"Tacos!"

* * *

"Do you want to talk about when we get home yet? I mean, your parents' house?"

Gentle stroke of his wonderful face in the dark.

"It's okay, Patrick. You can call it home. And no, not really. I just want to be."

"Okay. I love you, Annabel."

"I love you, Patrick."

* * *

"Did you get everything?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll go to the bathroom and then we can go."

"Okay."

Moments of quiet movement.

Then-

"Annabel, did you steal the little bottles of shampoo from the bathroom?"

"Well, you asked if I had gotten everything."

* * *

"Are you gonna miss it here? The beach. The sun. The waves?"

"Yeah. A little. But I miss Sam. And your moms' cooking. And your dad's jokes."

"We've only been gone four days."

"I know. But . . ."

"It's home?"

"Yeah. I know you don't-"

"No. It's okay. It's not so bad. Plus, we get to open up all our wedding gifts when we get there!"

"Oh. Yeah."

"Wanna lay a bet to see how many toasters we got?"

"Oh, uh . . ."

* * *

"Annabel!"

"Darling!"

"Patrick!"

 _Oh my god._

 _Don't say a word._

 _But he's so . . . red._

"Hey, Patrick, got a little burned there, huh?"

"Jimmy!"

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86! I'm really grateful you're not sick of this story yet. :D**


	65. Shower of Blessings

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Shower of Blessings

* * *

There were three toasters in total.

Along with a plethora of bakeware, cookware.

Dinnerware and silverware and drink ware.

And even a full set of blue flower pattern . . .

"Damn, we are gonna be having some fancy grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Annabel!"

"What, Ma-Da? It was a joke. I like it!"

. . . china.

They got bath towels and hand towels and kitchen towels and tea towels.

Hand-knitted oven mitts and cleaning cloths.

Bed sheets and a comforter.

Embroidered throw pillows and picture frames.

A laundry basket and an iron and an ironing board.

And even a drying rack for unmentionables.

"Man, this is a lot of stuff."

Ma-Da and Ma-Ba recorded it all on a legal pad . . .

"So you know who gave you what . . ."

". . . for later when you . . ."

. . . in their neat, careful handwriting . . .

". . . write the thank you cards."

. . . that Jimmy could only imagine in his wildest dreams.

The only real remaining problem was . . .

"Uh, Annabel?"

. . . they had no place to store it all.

"Oh, yes, well . . ."

". . . give us just a moment."

* * *

"Hi, Aunt Lucy!"

"Hello, Annabel!"

Lucy Barrett.

Once brown pixie cut hair now gray pixie cut hair.

Once young face now aging, however gracefully, yes aging.

Still slender figure, though only truly slender and not narrow-rail, miserable thin from a life of abuse and constant anxiety and fear.

Hazel eyes lined with crow's feet of laughter and age.

Lucy who had survived her alcoholic husband, eventually escaping into the caring arms of the freaks next door.

Getting a second chance at life, free and unencumbered by fear.

Rising up out of her metaphorical ashes a little at a time.

Part time hobby artist.

Career librarian.

Full time friend and adopted family member.

Rising up, up, up into the light of a good life.

All the way up to the rain gutters.

Where she had plummeted.

Straight down onto a broken arm, a slightly bruised ego.

And a new curiosity about the medical field.

Lucy.

Once frightened, hunched shadow of a woman.

Now the first woman emergency medical technician in Brandon, in Hillsborough County, Perhaps all of Florida for all they knew.

And certainly the most respected, at least in their eyes.

Lucy.

With a hug and gentle smile.

And a big surprise.

"I didn't want to tell you at the wedding or the reception. I thought it would seem . . . showy or something."

Deep breath.

"I have been offered a position in Orlando training other EMTs."

A trace of pride crossed her clearly pleased face.

"I'm the first female to be hired for the job."

Annabel burst into an enthusiastic applause-hug combo, completely overjoyed.

They let her revel, knowing reality would be setting in momentarily.

And . . .

"Wait-"

. . . it did.

Annabel, drawing back. Face drawing down.

Eyes peering, brow furrowing.

"Hang on, how far is it to Orlando?"

Lucy pressed her lips together for a moment before smiling carefully.

"A little over an hour."

The room watched as Annabel grew very still.

"That's, uh, far."

Lucy nodded in agreement.

"Too far to drive daily."

Annabel watched, jaw clenched.

"I'll be moving at the end of August."

And Annabel imploded.

"You can't _move_! You live next door! You've _always_ lived next door! Where are you going to live _now_?!"

Lucy seemed to dare not reach out to attempt comfort, not yet.

"Orlando. I've found a lady about my age who was looking for a roommate. I'll be within walking distance of the building."

Tears slipped down Annabel's face as she protested .

"But you can't leave, Aunt Lucy! You've always been here!"

"No, not always. But it has been a long time and I will miss it. But things change."

Lucy's tone was low and soothing. Just firm enough to be clear.

As if talking to a hysterical child. Or a distraught pregnant woman."

"It doesn't mean we don't love each other and I'll still be your Aunt Lucy."

Annabel felt a flare of rage that she was being talked to like she was a-

"And I want you to have my house."

Annabel stared in absolute shock, unaware that Bette and Dot were now holding hands and Jimmy had a careful arm around both of them and Patrick was standing with his mouth agape.

"What?"

Lucy shrugged.

"I don't want to take the time to sell it. I bought it from my landlord and paid it off a few years ago. Around the same time your parents did."

Annabel vaguely remembered something about 'freedom, sweet freedom, I'll be damned, could you ever have imagined' but at the time she hadn't been paying much attention to grownup matters.

"I want you to have it. If you want it."

Annabel's mouth opened and closed several times.

"When you're done with it, I'll set it up as a rental."

Patrick, even more quiet than usual, spoke up, almost unheard.

"We could pay you rent, Ms. Barrett. I'm working at the store with, uh, Jimmy."

Firm shake of the head.

"Bette and Dot and Jimmy saved my life back in 1953. Really, truly saved it. And they kept me alive for a while after that too though they might not know it. I'd be dead if it weren't for them. Dead. Or worse-"

 _What the hell's worse than dead, Aunt Lucy?_

"- and I can never repay that gift, the gift of my life."

She paused, gifting the Walkers with a shimmering gaze of love.

Then continued, locking eyes with Annabel.

"If you don't want to live there, that's fine. No problem. But if you do, it's yours for as long as you want starting in September. Save your money, be careful with it, and one day you'll find somebody else who needs help and then it'll be your turn to help them however they need it."

The silence held because Annabel honestly couldn't think of a single thing to say to her aunt.

"Okay."

Her voice was tinier than she meant for it to be.

But only because she felt, at that moment, so tiny amid all the love and care and grace everybody was showing her in a place she had always despised and dismissed.

But maybe . . .

 _I was wrong._

. . . she hadn't been seeing it for what it really was.

"Thank you, Aunt Lucy."

"You're welcome, Annabel."

And then they just cried together for a while.

* * *

And when they were done-

"I'm also taking you to the doctor."

"I'm not sick."

"OB-GYN."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, I'm gonna go-"

"I know. You're going to go with me. I'm going to get you started."

Annabel opened her mouth.

"No excuses. You should have gone months ago even though I understand why you didn't. But you're going now."

Annabel closed her mouth.

Patrick opened his.

"Finally. Thank you, Mrs. Barrett."

"Patrick!"

* * *

 **If you think this isn't normal, you're probably right. But I think it's just what they would all do for each other.**

 **Your opinion?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and smclendon for the encouragement! I really, really appreciate it. :D**


	66. So, What Next?

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

So, What Next?

* * *

In the space of a very long, drama-filled summer, Annabel Margaret Walker (Anderson) had discovered she was pregnant, moved two thousand miles back home, had something of a nervous breakdown, calmed her tits ( _thanks, Daddy_ ), gotten married, nearly sunburned her brand-new husband to death on their honeymoon.

And then come home.

And everything had gone back to normal.

Or the new normal, she guessed.

They had a house now.

Just like her parents.

With two bedrooms.

Just like her parents.

A little kitchen and dining table.

just like her parents.

And one bathroom with an old linoleum floor just like her parents.

Oh and a little backyard with a fence just like her parents and attached to her parents _and_ it was Florida and not, in _fact_ , Colorado _and_ she was very pregnant and hormonal _and_ currently languishing in the Florida blistering heat.

And none of that, just then mattered at all.

Because Aunt Lucy had taken her to the doctor.

The best in town.

"Dr Steadman, this is Annabel. Annabel, Dr. Steadman."

"Well, Annabel, nice to meet you."

"Yeah. Nice to meet you too."

"So, you're pregnant."

"A little."

"Have you been going to the doctor?"

"Um, no. I meant to but, uh, . . ."

 _I didn't want to._

"Ah. I see."

Pause. Shuffling of papers.

"Well, you're here now so let's see what's going on with that baby, shall we?"

 _Relief. Thank you for not being a douchemonkey._

"Okay."

* * *

Her weight had gone up. Not much.

Blood pressure good.

Pulse, respiration. Temperature.

All good.

"Okay, let's check the fetal heartbeat."

 _What's a fetal?_

"We should be able to hear it at this stage."

 _It's got one?_

"Lay on your back, please."

Preparation of equipment.

"Any kicking?"

 _Should it?_

"No."

Cold jelly ick on her belly.

"Lightheadedness, dizzy spells?"

"No."

 _Oh god, is that going to-_

 _Whump whump whump-_

 _-oh._

 _Whump whump whump-_

"Is that . . . is . . ."

"It is."

"It's so fast . . ."

"One hundred thirty beats, perfect. Right where we want it."

 _It's got a heartbeat._

 _My baby's got a heartbeat._

"Alright. Sounds good."

Machine removed.

Awww . . .

Goo removed.

"Okay. We're going to do an ultrasound to get more measurements."

"Okay."

 _Oh my god, I'm going to see-_

"Wait. Can I call P- . . . my husband? He'd want to see."

 _I have a husband. I have a baby and husband._

"Of course. Is he far?"

"Just in town."

* * *

 _Bbrrrrrinnng!_

"Clark's Grocery. How may I help you?"

"Hey, Daddy."

"Annabel!"

The top of Patrick's head popped up from the canned beets.

"Everything okay?"

Swiveled.

"Yeah. Can I talk to Patrick?"

Meerkat alertness.

"Sure."

Gesture of a hook.

Immediate arrival.

"Hello? Yes. Yes. Yes. Okay. Okay. Bye."

Phone hung up.

Not long to wait.

"Annabel's having an ultrasound. To see the baby."

Barely a pause.

"Can I -"

Jimmy felt a grin surging with his heart.

"Better hurry. You don't want to miss it."

"Okay. Thanks."

And he _thought_ the boy took the time to open the door on the way out instead of power right through it.

 _I love that boy._

* * *

"Okay. There's the brain . . . heart . . . lungs . . . kidneys, left, right, bladder . . ."

The ultrasound technician continued listing all the internal organs Annabel and Patrick's baby currently possessed.

Mashing buttons and typing up somethings.

And Annabel just couldn't listen.

Not as much as she supposed she should.

Because there was a . . .

 _Oh god._

. . . baby.

 _Oh my god._

Filling the screen.

Well, a baby-ish thing.

 _That's my baby._

Right there in front of her.

"Patrick, we have a baby."

Squirming.

"I see it."

And moving.

"Patrick-"

And breathing.

"Yeah."

And she just didn't know what to do.

"So . . ."

Except try not to cry.

". . . do you want to know the sex?"

 _What sex?_

 _Oh. That sex._

"You can tell that already?"

Light humor colored the woman's voice.

"Sure. What does that look like to you?"

As she pointed.

And Annabel gaped.

 _Oh my god._

"A tree trunk?"

And the technician laughed.

"Well, it is zoomed in pretty close. Yes, that's the penis."

And Annabel entire world felt . . .

"Congratulations, Mom."

. . . dreamlike and unreal.

"Patrick," she whispered, squeezing his hand almost to the point of breakage probably. "It's a _boy_."

And she would have looked at him, looked to see his reaction.

But she couldn't. Couldn't look away from her baby.

Son.

Boy.

Her child.

Because she might miss him.

He might do something. Or not do something.

And she couldn't miss it.

"Okay. Well, that's about it. Let's get you cleaned up and off this table."

And the screen went black.

And Annabel's baby was gone.

 _Heyyy-_

She numbly wiped off her belly with the paper towel the technician handed her.

Sat up.

And looked at Patrick.

Patrick.

Whose face was . . . a picture.

"Patrick?"

A picture of mystification. Of Belief.

And transcendence.

"Patrick?"

Or something.

"She reached out for his hand.

"You okay?"

Mute, Annabel's orphan husband said nothing.

Reached out his non-Annabel hand to her small baby bump.

Blinked hard.

Nodded.

And smiled.

* * *

They weren't _trying_ to make a scene.

Not really.

They just didn't know anyone else in the world existed but them.

And they weren't making a scene.

Not really.

But nobody minded.

Nobody cared.

Except Patrick Oliver Anderson and Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson.

Who had, for a brief span of time, become one.

Non-sexually.

But one all the same.

Right there on the examination table of the ultrasound room.

Melding into one, sappy, dopey, baby-loving entity of tears, smiles, and joyous wonder.

A girl and a boy.

A woman and a man.

A wife and a husband.

A mom. And a dad.

Sitting side by side now, arm in arm.

Fingers interlaced.

Her snuggled into him.

As he seemed to shower her with adoration, love.

And awe.

"Annabel, I can't b-, I . . ."

"Yeah, I know."

As the door opened.

"Well, Mrs. Anderson . . ."

And other people entered their new world.

* * *

Annabel _thought_ the doctor spoke words . . .

". . . just fine . . . -ional age . . . weeks . . . " . . . alcohol or cigarettes . . . exercise . . . water and fruits and vegetables . . . breakthrough bleeding . . . heart palpitations . . ."

But she couldn't really be sure.

"Mrs. Anderson?"

Because she was kind of in some sort of shock.

"Huh?"

Or something.

"I said, 'do you have any questions or concerns at this time?'"

 _Oh._

 _Uhh, it feels like I did._

 _But I can't-_

"No, I don't think so. Do you, Patrick?"

Mute shake of the head.

"Alright then. Well, contact us if you do. See you back in a month."

"Okay. Um, thank you."

* * *

". . . boy!"

"Oh Annabel!"

"Oh, darling!"

 _Oh Sister!_

 _Sister!_

* * *

". . . boy!"

 _Oh._

 _Ma._

 _She's having a . . ._

 _Oh, Ma._

"Say, that's . . .

 _I won't cry-_

". . . fantastic!"

* * *

". . . sound picture! Here!"

Well, would you look at that.

 _That's her baby? Right now? Inside her? How amazing._

 _It looks just like Patrick._

 _You cannot possibly tell that._

 _But Jimmy will. Just you wait._

"Well, look at that. Patrick, I gotta say, looks just like you."

 _Told you._

* * *

The picture . . .

 _Do you think they would notice if we snuck over there and stole it?_

. . . went proudly right up on the fridge.

 _I think they just might._

Annabel and Patrick's fridge.

 _But, I need it!_

In Annabel and Patrick's house.

 _Well, you can fight our pregnant daughter for it._

On the other side of the privacy fence.

 _Party pooper._

And that was okay too.

* * *

"Thank you, Aunt Lucy, for taking me, uh, I mean, us, to the doctor."

"Of course, Annabel. Now, you have to go for every visit, just like Dr. Steadman said."

"I will."

"Patrick?"

"Aunt Lucy!"

"She will."

"Patrick!"

* * *

"Aunt Lucy, I have a question."

"Lay it on me, Annabel."

"Can we . . . can we . . . can we paint the baby's room?"

"Of course! It's your house right now. Do what you want with it."

"Thank you! Hey, Patrick, she said we could-"

* * *

And so it went.

Patrick went to work.

Annabel grew a baby.

And the Walkers . . .

 _Sister, do you think we should get started on the baby blanket?_

 _Yes, I think we should._

 _Blue?_

 _And orange?_

 _And yellow!_

 _And green._

 _The only problem is –_

"Annabel, what's the baby's name?"

"We need it for the baby blanket."

"Sorry, Ma-Da, it's a surprise."

"What?"

"Sorry, Ma-Ba, you'll have to wait 'til you meet him."

 _Maybe we can ask Patrick._

 _I think they're a united front._

 _Oh. So that's what that feels like._

 _Apparently._

* * *

 **Okay, so Annabel is four and a half months pregnant now. Just in case you're wondering.**

 **And yes, the baby does have a name. And yes, you do have to wait until you meet him. Annabel said. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86, and smclendon for so graciously reviewing previously! :D**


	67. Oh Boy

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Oh Boy

* * *

There are several parts to the pregnancy experience.

There's "excuse me, I'm what?!"

There's, "urgh, how can something so little do so much weird to me?"

Annabel was currently on the "pregnancy is sex and food, move aside, people" phase.

Such was her second trimester.

"Oh my god, Ma-Da, this coconut cake is to die for!"

"Well, thank you, Annabel."

"Oh my god, Patrick, sex with you is just the best!"

"Well, thank you, Annabel."

And of course, the baby itself . . .

"Patrick! I can feel him! He's kicking!"

. . . was also becoming more . . .

"Really? Can I feel it?"

. . . of a thing.

"Duh, Daddy-o! Here!"

Moment of still, as the hand pressed to her belly strove to feel the squirmy little thing within.

"I don't . . . I don't feel it."

Slight despondency.

Determined Annabel.

"Oh don't worry, you will. He's gonna get, like, _huge_. And awesome."

Big cheek smooch.

And Annabel, wandering off into the depths of the kitchen cabinet in search of . . .

"Hey, graham crackers!"

. . . sustenance.

* * *

And the baby wasn't the only thing getting huge.

"Oh. My. God!"

So was its caretaker. Grower. Roommate.

"Patrick!"

Mommy.

"What? What's wrong?"

Controlled Patrick concern.

Her belly.

Her luxurious pregnancy hair.

Her appetite.

And-

"Look at my boobs! They're huge!"

Relaxing back into calm.

"They look good to me."

Blushing smile.

"Patrick!"

Returning blushing smile.

"Well, they do."

Annabel shaking her head, coming for a kiss.

"You're so sweet. I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

Of course it wasn't all perfection.

"Annabel, are you okay?"

"Yeah. My back just hurts from carrying around this belly."

"Want me to rub it?"

"Oh that'd be great, thank you."

* * *

"Well, Annabel Walker, how are you, well, I suppose it'd be Annabel . . . what's your last name again, dear?"

"Anderson. Hi, Mrs. Gish."

"Yes, Anderson, that's right. Well, that husband of yours must be a good catch, you're practically glowing!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Gish."

"And looks like you're putting on a few pounds in the kitchen too. Cooking for your man, are you?"

 _Definitely got something in this oven._

"Yep."

"Well, good for you, dear. I'm glad to see you're finally settling down then."

 _How old do you think I am?_

"Thank you, Mrs. Gish."

"Well, have a good day, dear. 'Bye!"

"'Bye, Mrs. Gish."

 _What just happened?_

* * *

Patrick had never had a family before.

A father to give him advice.

"Don't worry about Annabel and the baby, man. It's all gonna be fine."

A mother to dote on him.

"More potatoes, Patrick?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Walker."

People to care, really care. To make him feel like he was just absolute best thing in the whole wide world for no reason other than the fact that he was alive and on the planet as he was.

"Patrick, now that you're here, please consider us your mothers."

"If you like. Let us be your family."

"We love you."

"Yes, we do, dear boy. So much."

Moment of quiet, gently smiling face.

"Okay. Thank you."

Almost shy.

"But what should I call you?"

 _I adore him._

 _So do I._

"Whatever you're most comfortable with, dear."

"Okay. Thank you."

Annabel, on the other hand, had always had that.

"Hey, Moms! Do you have any Rice Krispie treats left?"

Lived with it. Lived in it.

"Why, yes, we do, darling."

"Does the baby want some?"

"Nope. Me!"

So when they had moved to Florida, they had lived with her parents.

". . . anything that needs to be washed, dear?"

And was there, in the middle of the boundless love every day.

"Yes. But I don't mind doing it myself."

"Nonsense, Patrick."

Not just a father-in-law, but a dad.

"Tell ya what, let's take good ol' Sam here to the store today. Give him a change of scene, huh?"

Not just a mother in law, but two . . .

"Patrick, could you reach the jug on the top shelf, please?"

. . . moms.

"Sure. Here."

"Thank you, darling."

* * *

But when they moved into Lucy's house, those loving, doting parents kept their respectful . . .

 _Oh, let's invite Patrick and Annabel over for breakfast!_

 _They might want to be left alone. They are newlyweds after all._

. . . loving distance to the newlyweds.

 _Leave the door open then._

 _Yes, and unlatch the screen._

And Patrick, having grown to crave and hunger for that loving, doting life, sought it out again of his own volition.

 _Knock, knock._

"Well, good morning, Patrick!"

"Hello, darling!"

Patrick Pause, something they were finding quite pleasant in their old age.

"Uh, I just wanted to, uh, check to see if you needed anything?"

"Yes, come on in and taste test this peanut butter syrup we've made."

Careful taste.

"Wow, that's really good. How did you do that?"

"Oh, it's easy."

"Would you like to give it a try?"

"Is that okay?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

There were some hiccups.

 _Briiiing!_

"Hello?"

"Hi, uh, Ma-Da, have you seen my husband, by any chance?"

"Well, yes I have, Annabel. He's standing right here in our kitchen. He's making drop biscuits."

"I thought it was peanut butter syrup."

"Oh no, that was days ago."

"Oh, uh, okay, well, when he's done, can you send him back over here?"

"Of course, darling. Would you like him now?"

"No, no. Just . . . whenever."

"Alright then. 'Bye. We love you."

"Love you too."

* * *

It wasn't that Annabel didn't _want_ to cook.

She didn't _mind_ cooking.

And Patrick . . .

". . . moms taught me to cook."

"That's, arghm, delicious, baby."

. . . seemed to positively _love_ cooking for some reason she could not imagine.

"Pass me the peas, please?"

It was just that . . .

"More rolls?"

"Yes!"

. . . well . . .

"What's for dessert, Moms?"

"Pineapple upside down cake."

. . . Annabel was hungry.

"Well, girls, this was amazing, as always."

"Well, thank you, Jimmy."

And pregnant.

"Here, Ma-Da, Ma-Ba, let me clean this up for you."

"Well, thank you, Patrick."

And her parents' house was right there.

"Would you like to stay for Ripley's?"

"Annabel?"

So they ate there most nights out of the week.

"You go ahead. I think the baby needs a walk."

"Hey, would you like some company?"

"Sure, Daddy."

And everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves.

"Come on, Sam."

 _Yip_!

Immensely.

* * *

And as Annabel's baby belly grew . . .

"Do you think you should be up so much?"

"Yeah, why?"

"No reason. I thought you might be making yourself too tired."

"No, I feel great!"

. . . so did Patrick's anxiety.

"What are you doing?"

"Vacuuming. The dog sheds."

And conversely . . .

"Hey, I'll get that for you."

"Patrick, it's a basket of clothes."

. . . the tension grew with them.

"I just want you to be okay."

"I'm fine. But I don't think you are."

* * *

"You can't spend your life worrying about everything all the time, man."

He wished he had a hand to squeeze his son-in-law's shoulder with.

"It's not fair to you. It's not fair to them."

He wouldn't even care if it was a lobster claw.

"You just gotta look on the sunny side."

Just so he could make the contact the boy needed.

Patrick nodded unconvincingly into his iced tea glass.

"I know. I just . . ."

And his voice was almost too quiet to be heard when he spoke.

"I'm just so scared of losing them."

Of course he would be.

The kid with no one.

Even without a dad, he'd always, except for when Ma'd been locked up or he'd been locked up, had somebody.

The other freaks.

Paul. Eve.

Somebody.

And they'd all, except Bette and Dot, had died.

And left him.

Alone.

Alone.

 _At some point, you'll always end up alone, I guess._

 _Eventually_.

But he couldn't say all that to the kid, not yet, not now.

But he had to say . . .

"Look, I don't know what the future holds . . ."

. . . something.

". . . I mean, I couldn't even have guessed being here now ever . . ."

So he did.

". . . and it's better than anything I could have ever imagined, I'll tell you that."

Or tried to.

"And I can also tell you as long as we're able . . ."

As best he could.

". . . we'll be here for you. As much as we can."

Because the boy . . .

"In whatever capacity we can."

. . . needed to hear something good.

"Forever."

And true.

Silence hung between the two of them in that soaking Florida heat.

Jimmy wondered if he had said too much or wrong.

 _Man, this guy really likes his pauses._

And the boy swallowed.

And nodded.

"Thank you, sir."

"Dad."

"Dad."

And he decided it was okay.

* * *

"Hey, we saw you talking to Patrick out there."

"Everything okay?"

Jimmy nod.

"Yeah. I hope I helped."

Sweet almost identical smiles.

"We bet you did."

"You're a good man, Darling."

Sweet kisses, loving hugs.

"Have I told you girls lately how much I love you?"

Girlish giggles.

"Yes."

"Tell us again."

"I love you."

* * *

 **Ah, pregnancy, it's a hodgepodge.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and smclendon for so graciously reviewing before!**

 **See you again soon. :D**


	68. The Thing About Pregnancy Is

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Thing About Pregnancy Is

* * *

The thing about pregnancy is . . .

"How ya doin' there, Annabel?"

"I'm good, I'm good. You know. Same soup. Just reheated."

. . . that it just never seems to _end_.

There's the excitement.

"Hey! I can feel him moving!"

"Just wait 'til he gets bigger, Patrick. Annabel used to kick me in the face!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!"

"Daddy!"

"What?"

The anxiety.

"Hey, Annabel, are you okay?"

"Yeah, Patrick, I'm just sleepy. I'm, you know, growing a person here."

The exhaustion.

"Annabel, roll over."

"Why?"

"Because you're snoring."

"Doesn't bother me."

On both sides.

The renewed excitement.

"Patrick, come see the baby's room! I've been working on it all day!"

"Wow, it's beautiful."

"Thanks! I'm almost done."

"Don't you want to sit down for a while?"

"No, I feel great!"

More anxiety.

"Moms, what was labor like?"

"Well, it was different from what yours will be, I imagine. We didn't go to the hospital. We just got in the bathtub and-"

"Never mind."

And, of course, the exhaustion.

"Annabel, are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, you're asleep in the tub."

"Am I taking a bath?"

"Yeah."

"Well okay then."

And right about the time . . .

"Wow, I really felt that one! How do you handle him moving around inside you all the time like that, Annabel?"

"I push him back."

. . . you think it's over . . .

"Oh darling, your feet-"

"- they're so swollen-"

"Yeah, I know, I'm a freakin' StayPuft over here."

. . . it just keeps on _going_.

"Hey, honey, how are you?"

"Daddy, I love you but if you ask me that question one more time, I'm going to let this baby kick you."

"She's a little tired, I think."

"Do you think that, Patrick? Why would you think that, Patrick?"

"Annabel, darling, you don't have to be so-"

"Hey, how about some ice cream for our baby girl?"

"Oooh, ice cream?"

* * *

But at least it was the end of November.

Halloween had come and gone.

"What's your shirt say? 'I. . . Ate . . . Watermelon . . . Seed.' Funny."

"I'm freaking hilarious."

As had her birthday.

". . . -day to you!"

"And many more!"

"Well, what was your birthday wish?"

 _To not be pregnant anymore._

And now Thanksgiving.

"Well, how was the stuffed turkey, everyone?"

"I'm fine, Aunt Kathy."

Rolling laughter.

"Anyone care for pumpkin pie?"

 _Oh god, I'm going to explode._

"Yes, please!"

And at Christmas . . .

"What would you like for Christmas, Annabel?"

"To see my feet again."

. . . Santa wouldn't be the only fat person wandering the neighborhood.

"Oh, that's so funny!"

"Hysterical."

But he would probably be the jolliest.

* * *

Doctor visits were weekly now.

"Well, how are we today, Annabel?"

 _I don't know how 'we' are but I'm-_

"Still pregnant."

Much to Annabel's chargin.

"Alright, let's take a look-see and make sure everything is alright."

 _Please stop inspecting my hoo-ha._

"Now, uh, we seem to have . . ."

 _A baby, let's call it a baby, huh?_

". . . something of an anomaly in the ultrasound."

 _Wait, what?_

"But we can't see it clearly at this time. We'll know more upon delivery."

 _Oh shit._

"But I promise I'll do whatever I can to take care of you and the baby. Do you have any questions?"

Patrick now, quiet Patrick taking the lead.

"Will he, will the baby be okay?"

Big nods.

"Yes, other than a possible defect of the hands-"

 _Daddy-_

"- he seems perfectly normal."

"Okay."

* * *

"Patrick, will you still love our baby if something is wrong with his hands?"

She had told him about Daddy's lobster claws, of course.

And Patrick's face was a picture of open surprise and shock.

"Of course, Annabel. It's my baby. I'll love him no matter what. Always. Won't you?"

She smiled, though her anxiety was at an all-time high.

"Yeah. Of course."

And it was true.

 _But how bad is it going to be?_

 _Like, really?_

* * *

The Walkers had not announced their daughter's pregnancy the way they had announced their daughter's marriage.

". . . little something I thought the baby might like . . ."

And yet, the whole town, it seemed, knew.

". . . stumbled over while I was sorting for the church sale . . ."

And people started dropping by.

". . . always had some on hand . . ."

A pack of nursing cloths here, a sweet little stuffed giraffe there.

". . . boy or a girl but green ought to do nicely for either, don't you think?"

Someone else, a Bible.

". . . too early to start guiding them in the steps of the Lord."

And Bette and Dot . . .

"Well, thank you, that's so kind . . ."

And sometimes even Jimmy and Patrick at the store . . .

"Hey, that's real nice, thank you . . ."

. . . took note of their names and addresses . . .

"Yes, thank you very much."

. . . for the new load of thank you notes to be written.

And Annabel . . .

 _Didn't I just finish the wedding ones?_

. . . again picked up pen and paper in her pregnant pudgey hands.

 _Damn, I love the love._

And dutifully got . . .

 _But I need a nap._

. . . to work.

* * *

It was like that movie, Alien.

Where the woman has the thing in her and you can see it moving around inside her.

Except Annabel loved her . . . thing.

Baby.

Baby.

 _Hey, baby, it's me, it's your mommy. I love you. I don't know you yet but I love you. I love you so much._

Rubbing the belly, feeling the little . . . whatever part the baby was currently trying to shove through her belly button.

Well, whatever was left of her belly button.

 _Oh my god, it's gone inside out._

Patrick, by all appearances . . .

"Hey, Annabel!"

"Hey, Patri-"

"Hey, baby! Hey . . ."

. . . adored it just as much as she did.

Kissing the belly.

"I missed you today."

Rubbing the belly.

"You've been treating your mommy good?"

Talking to the belly.

"Wow, you're getting so strong . . ."

Belly, belly, belly.

 _Hey, buddy, my eyes are up here._

But she didn't really mind.

It was better than not having a loving man.

She guessed.

But still . . .

"Hey, Patrick?"

"Yeah?"

. . . sometimes she just wanted . . .

"Hi."

"Hi."

. . . some attention too.

* * *

"Ooooh . . ."

Instant alert.

"Are you okay?"

She had been fine.

Sort of.

Except then, she had stood up and . . .

"Oooooh . . ."

"Annabel?!"

. . . everything just . . . turned.

The pain, pressure in her . . . nether regions intensified.

"Ahhh . . ."

And she thought.

 _Is he, like, crowning? Now?_

* * *

". . . has dropped."

Annabel stared at the doctor, unable to comprehend what the hell he was trying to tell her.

 _Dropped?_

 _No, he hasn't, man. He's right there. I'd know if he'd dropped right out, man. It's what I'm waiting on._

"What?"

The old man smiled gently.

"The baby has dropped into position. His head is resting against your cervix. That's what's causing your pain."

 _Well, could you tell him to_ stop _, please?_

"And he's supposed to do that?" Patrick questioned timidly.

More reassuring smiles.

"Yes. It's all just part of the process."

Fantastic.

"So does that mean I'm about to have him?"

' _Cause I really wanted a shower first._

"No, not necessarily. It could be hours. It could be days. It could be weeks."

 _You're kidding me._

"What can we do to make it better?"

 _Other than knock my ass out?_

"Exercise helps. Walking."

 _You mean I'm supposed to walk around like this? With his head, like, between my knees?!_

* * *

"Hey . . . are you okay?"

She tried to nod 'yes'.

But couldn't stop the blubbering of tears.

"Annabel?"

No, she was _not_ okay.

She was pregnant. Like, really pregnant.

Like really, _really_ pregnant.

Like so pregnant, she was huge and round and bloated and always had heartburn and gas and hemorrhoids and she couldn't even eat much anymore because there was no room for food and a baby and and . . .

And she had all this stuff, these diapers and bottles and burp cloths and pacifiers and receiving blankets and a cradle and a changing table and and and -

She didn't know what to _do_ with all of it and it was just too much and . . .

She didn't know how to take care of a baby or how to even _have_ a baby or what to do with the rest of her entire life now and and and . . .

"My _boobs_ are leaking!"

Patrick Pause, a very drawn out one.

"Oh."

* * *

 **Such is pregnancy. I know. I had three of 'em.**

 **So, although Annabel doesn't quite believe it yet, she is almost near the end of her pregnancy.**

 **But not yet. You'll see.**

 **Thanks to midnightrebellion86, smclendon, and brigid1318 for previously reviewing!**


	69. The Final Lap, Almost

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Final Lap. Almost

* * *

The hospital bag was packed.

The baby's room, with fresh baby boy blue paint and sweet little duckies, was ready.

Crib, changing table, dresser.

The entire house baby proofed.

In preparation for a helpless eight pound potato that couldn't even hold up its own head.

And cleaned.

The house was cleaned.

And cleaned again.

And _again_.

Grandmothers-to-be Bette and Dot's camera ready to click.

Grandpa-to-be Jimmy ready to jump.

Daddy-to-be Patrick ready to snap in _half_ , it seemed.

And Annabel, well, Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson, just ready to have the damn thing over with . . .

 _I'm going to be pregnant forever, oh my god._

. . . before she actually attained a gravitational pull on the surrounding planets.

And so, everything was ready.

And waiting.

And waiting.

And _waiting_.

For . . . The Birth.

Which didn't seem to be . . .

"Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Fine. Stop watching me."

. . . coming.

* * *

The Week Of.

"Is the baby still moving?"

"If the baby isn't moving, that's mean he's getting ready to be born!"

"He's still moving."

"Oh."

* * *

The Day Of.

"Ready to have that baby?"

"Yeah. But could you tell _him_ that?"

* * *

The Day After.

"Annabel, how are you feeling?"

"Fine. Stop _asking_."

* * *

The Day _After_ The Day After.

"Hey, you want to go for a walk?"

"Me, waddling down the street? _No_."

"It helps induce labor."

"Well . . . okay."

* * *

Three Days After.

"You know, I've heard sex can jumpstart labor."

"Um, no."

"Patrick, come on, I'm _dying_ here!"

"I'm sorry. No."

* * *

Five Days After.

 _Oh my god, I really_ am _going to be pregnant forever._

 _I'll just take the high school diploma myself . . ._

 _"On behalf of my son, who is currently nine hundred thirty-six weeks overdue-"_

 _. . . at graduation._

And then because she didn't have anything else really to do, Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .

"Scruffy Sam, wake me when the baby is born, okay?"

. . . took a nap.

* * *

 _Whatthefu_ -

The room was dark. She didn't know what time it was.

And something had woken her.

 _Arghetl_ -

Annabel blinked owlishly at the surrounding dark.

Trying to get her bearings, her understanding of her space.

Tried to slow her erratically beating heart.

 _Whinft_ -

Rubbed her face.

Ran her fingers through her hair.

And, of course, rubbed her-

 _Oh hey, there, baby, ugh, you're so_ solid _, dang-_

-basketball-sized belly.

 _Okay._

 _I'm Annabel._

 _I'm home._

 _I'm pregnant._

 _Okay._

She heaved herself slowly into vertical position.

 _And I have to pee._

 _Again._

She shuffled to the door, frame outlined in dim light.

Fumbled the knob.

Lost in the room of eternal pregnancy.

And opened it.

Waddled out into the hall.

Across to the bathroom.

And shut that door.

Dropped her undies, her low riding sleep shorts.

And eased down.

 _Oh please, oh please, oh please-_

Ever since she entered her eleventy-first month of pregnancy, she'd had this-

 _Oh please-_

-reoccurring nightmare of sitting on a toilet-

 _-please-_

-and it breaking under her mammoth weight, crumbling porcelain and dirty, fecund water drooling everywhere-

 _-ertch-_

-of course, everyone seeing because there was no door on the stupid public bathroom-

 _-ewww-_

-and they were all _staring_.

But, of course, none of that happened.

Annabel finished her toiletries, flushed, washed her hands.

Managed to find a whiff of a smile as she readjusted Patrick's Pink Floyd shirt, the only damn thing that would _pretend_ to fit her at this point.

And exited the bathroom once more.

Patrick was there . . .

"Hey. Are you okay?"

. . . pretending not to hover.

And she wearily . . .

"Yeah. Just had to pee. What time is it?"

. . . smiled again.

"Almost e-"

And then she didn't hear anymore.

 _What-_

Because something had just hurt her.

Something low.

Something . . . not baby.

Something . . .

"Annabel?"

. . . else.

"I think I just had a contraction."

* * *

"Okay. Meet you there."

"Okay."

Jimmy fumbled the phone back into its cradle with his handless stumps.

And turned.

His gray-haired, eagle-eyed wives stood expectant in the hallway.

Pink, flowy, cotton nightgown adding to the paleness of their nearly identical lined faces.

"She's going to the hospital!" he announced with an excited grin.

 _I'm going to be a grandfather!_

Months and months and _months_ of watching his dear, darling daughter expand and grow and laugh and cry and smile and try to breathe around a baby and through the thick, wet, Florida heat had all led to this moment.

"Let's go then!"

"What are we waiting for?!"

And he couldn't agree . . .

 _Alright!_

. . . more.

* * *

". . . dilated to two."

 _Well, that's good, right?_

"Great, she's almost there!"

The doctor on call smiled politely while Annabel closed her eyes to gather her patience.

"Actually, she needs to get to ten before she can push, Mr. Walker."

Jimmy Daring Walker, having rarely set foot in a hospital and never directly involved in any of the goings-on of childbirth . . .

 _Oh._

. . . feel embarrassed and flummoxed by the revelation.

"Oh, okay. So . . . what do we do now?"

* * *

Truth be told, Annabel was feeling a little shaky.

She had been . . . examined.

And by examined, she'd had a nurse stomp into the room, flip up her hospital gown, command her to the edge of the bed.

Snap on a surgerical glove.

And then, well, Annabel didn't quite know what had happened.

Except she had felt an extreme amount of excruciating pain that had caused her to shriek and grab the mattress with claw-like hands.

While Patrick, color draining from his face, had dropped his jaw and bulged his eyes.

". . . ripened fully yet. The doctor will be in shortly."

And then the curt nurse had been gone.

Along with any and all of Annabel's gutsy bravado.

 _What the hell-_

And all she wanted to do now was pop the kid out and go _home_.

". . . walk a little. It might help the process along."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks, Doc."

Eventually.

* * *

So, she walked.

The hospital, the very same one Daddy had almost died in after he'd gotten shot, was small.

So small.

Only four wings.

Short ones.

That she was currently walking.

"I'd like to get out of bed, please. Walk a little?"

Miss Hoo-Ha Check and her doubtful eyebrow.

"Are you _sure_ you're going to walk? I don't want to get you out of this bed if you're not _really_ going to walk."

 _Bitch, I will walk all over your stupid face._

"Yes, I'm really going to walk."

Audible sigh.

"Okay, let's get you out of bed then."

With Patrick.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

And the baby.

 _Ugh, he's so_ heavy _!_

Her slow drip saline IV.

 _Can't put some shit in it for the pain-_

And her . . .

"Mmmmm . . ."

"Annabel?"

"Whew. Yeah. I'm okay."

. . . five minute contractions.

Over . . .

"You okay?"

. . . and over . . .

"Yeah. Yeah."

. . . and over.

Ma-Da and Ma-Ba . . .

 _Yes, those are my two-headed moms-_

. . . and Daddy . . .

- _and my handless dad, Get over it, people-_

. . . had resigned themselves to the waiting room about two and a half minutes . . .

". . . elbow, Annabel. I, uh, didn't know that was possible."

. . . before Nurse Hoo-Ha Check had barged in and . . .

"Ha. Me neither."

. . . violated her.

And now, three hours later, Annabel was starting to feel . . .

"I'm tired of walking. I want to go back to my room now."

"Okay."

. . . a little tired.

* * *

Fallen asleep.

 _I hate you._

Patrick. Had fallen. Asleep.

 _I hate you so much._

Right there, in the _room_.

 _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you._

Right next to her _bed._

Like it didn't even freaking _matter_.

Okay, fine. There was a little more to it than that.

They had gone back to the hospital room, settled Annabel . . .

"Back from your walk then, I see."

 _Growl._

. . . back in her bed.

And waited.

"Ooooooh-"

And waited.

"Ooooooh-"

And waited.

"Grrrrrrrrrr-"

And eventually, four a.m. . . .

 _You know, you snore too-_

. . . had kicked the former Denver CandyMan's . . .

 _You don't hear me bitchin' about_ that _!_

Denver CandyMan's . . .

'Cause you're _asleep_!

. . . ass.

And she didn't even have Scooby Doo . . .

 _Oh yay. The farm report._

. . . to keep her company either.

But finally, finally, _finally_ at long, _long_ last . . .

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318, smclendon, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing previously!**

 **Ready to meet the baby yet?**


	70. Seventy-Four Hours Flat Somebody Counted

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Seventy-Four Hours Flat, Somebody Counted

* * *

"You _what_?!"

"They're sending us home. To rest."

"But . . . but you didn't have the _baby_ yet!"

"I know. They said I wasn't dilating enough and they would give me something for the pain."

 _"What?!"_

"They said the meds would numb the contractions."

"Is that even safe?!"

"I don't know. I'm supposed to come back when I'm ready."

"What the hell does _that_ mean?!"

"I don't know, I-"

* * *

"What the hell kind of shitshow are they _running_ over there?!"

"Jimmy-"

"She's pregnant, _pregnant_! Actually ready to have an actual _baby_ -"

"Jimmy-"

"-and they send her _home_?!"

"Jimmy-"

"Don't you 'Jimmy' me! I'm gonna sue the _shit_ outta that entire operation, I tell ya!"

"Jimmy!"

"People think carnies are shady for not trustin' nobody! _This_ is why we don't trust nobody!"

"Jimmy-"

"Honey-"

"You're not a carnie anymore."

"We have to trust these people, they know what they're doing."

 _Do they, Dot?_

 _Hush, Bette._

* * *

 _Oh that dear sweet boy._

 _He's just so tired._

 _Staying up all night, watching over Annabel._

 _We offered to take a shift._

 _And he said no, that he couldn't bear to close his eyes._

 _He said he was afraid if he didn't stay alert, she'd give birth on the bathroom floor._

 _Well,_ we _did._

 _Technically it was the bathtub._

 _Yes. Less cleanup._

 _Yes._

 _But to be fair, that was out of necessity._

 _And I wouldn't wish it on anybody._

 _Nooo._

 _Especially not Annabel_ _._

 _No. Or Patrick._

 _No. He's just a boy._

 _A sweet, sweet boy._

 _Who needs some coffee if he's going to get through this._

 _Fire up, the Folgers, Sister._

* * *

The drugs were, had _been_ , strong.

Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson, doped up and loopy as hell, had been very nearly carried into the house by her anxious and worried husband.

"Okay, hang on, here we go-"

"Whee, oh, Patrick, you're so _strong . . ."_

And there she had slept . . .

" _Come one, come all!"_

 _Daddy, shhh, I'm sleeping._

 _"She's beautiful! She's intelligent! And she loves to listen to music!"_

 _That is true, I do like to listen to music._

 _"But don't ask her to dance 'cause she just might knock ya over with her big belly o' baby!"_

 _Heyyy . . ._

 _"The elephantine jewel of the Freak Show! The Incredible . . . The Stupendous . . . The Pumpkin-Bellied Princess of the Pasadena Freak Show_. . ."

 _Where the hell is Pasadena?_

 _". . . Ana Darling!"_

. . . ten hours.

Before awaking . , .

"Patrick!"

. . . in worse pain than ever before.

"I'm here, I'm here, are you okay?"

"No!"

Trying to time the contractions.

 _Arrrrrrgggghhhh-_

Trying to occupy herself between them.

 _Stupid . . . freaking . . . Price is Right!_

Ma-Da and Ma-Ba and Daddy and Jimmy-

"What can we do for you, darling?"

"Anything at all, sweet girl?"

". . . better off giving birth in field instead of this horseshit-"

"What, Jimmy?"

"Nothin', nuthin'. Just talkin' to myself."

And finally she had cried.

"I can't do this, Patrick! I can't take the pain anymore."

"Okay, okay, what do you want me to do?"

"Take me back to the hospital. And we're not leaving until we have a goddamn baby!"

"Okay."

* * *

 _-believe we have to stay here while she-_

"-goes off back to that hospital that didn't take good care of her the first time!"

 _They better damn well keep her this time until she has that baby!_

"They better damn well keep her this time until she has that baby! This is ridiculous!"

 _That's just what we said!_

"Or I'm gonna go up there and beat the shit outta somebody!"

 _I don't think he's kidding._

"I'm not even kidding!"

 _You know what else-_

"And I'll tell you something else-"

* * *

". . . three, push!"

 _Oh dear god iN HEAVEN!_

She had been pushing for two _hours_ , in the hospital (this time) for twelve.

And she had decided, right about that time, as they jammed that epidural needle into her lower back-

 _Fuck . . . mY . . . LIFE!_

-that she was stuck somewhere in the middle of eternal hell.

Where she wasn't _ever_ going to have this damn baby.

And wasn't _ever_ going to stop being in pain.

And all those people-

 _Oh god, I can't take this pressure!_

-would also be waiting for ever.

And poor Patrick, who just wanted to be a daddy . . .

 _Too bad, Bub, you're the proud parent of a knot of butt above my belly button-_

. . . would be waiting forever too.

If . . . only . . . she . . . could . . . just . . . push . . . this . . . baby . . . _out_.

"- again, Annabel."

She was bathed in ugly sweat, completely exhausted.

She had thrown up, almost passed out, cried, cussed, and watched Patrick run back and forth to the bathroom between contractions . . .

"Oh sweetie, are you getting sick?"

"No, I have to pee."

"Oh sweetie, is he getting sick?"

"No, he has to pee!"

. . . so he wouldn't miss the actual birth of their child because of his nervous bladder.

"Oh, sweetie, don't worry, most daddys-to-be get sick-"

 _Oh for God'S SAKE-_

And now . . .

"Come on, Annabel, keep pushing, you're almost there-"

 _LiaR YOU SAID THAT six HUNDRED YEARS AgO!_

. . . she was supposedly almost about to have her baby.

The only problem was . . .

 _Ow ow ow ow oW OW-_

. . . she just couldn't _get_ there.

The lights were too bright, the walls were too white.

Too many people all milling around in a room where her hoo-ha was on full display.

 _Ow ow ow ow oW OW-_

And Patrick was doing as he was told and holding her hand and folding her in half and forcing her to push push push _PUSH_ -

 _I don't want to do this ANYMORE-_

And then she screamed because she was being ripped in half and the whole world was on fire and she was dying in blinding pain and-

"Here he comes! Here he comes-"

 _Oh please dear God in HeaVEN-_

"There he is! Oh, a bouncing baby boy!"

And she just, absolutely, completely, and without another bit of strength left in her entire shaking body-

 _Oh thank god, oh, hey, Patrick, oh -_

-collapsed.

* * *

 **So yeah. This was my first birth experience, oh dear god. And I'm not even exaggerating. Not a bit. Not even a touch.**

 **And that is why the second two were c-sections. Yep, where you just go to the hospital and they just _hand_ you a baby.**

 **Basically. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86 for reviewing! Hope this chapter isn't too cringeworthy for you. But it's real!**


	71. Hello, Little One

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Hello, Little One

* * *

"Well, hello, little one, hello."

"We're your grandmothers."

"And we love you very much."

Everyone was holding the baby.

"Yes, we do."

Everyone was taking turns.

"And we always will."

Everyone was gathering around.

"No matter what."

There was Ma-Da and Ma-Ba, of course, crying.

"Yes, no matter what."

There was Daddy.

"Oh god, Annabel, he's just beautiful."

Crying.

Aunt Lucy.

"Such beautiful blond hair."

Teary-eyed.

Kathy and Thomas.

"What color eyes does he have?"

Slightly wistful, at least one of them.

Patty, her horde thankfully left out in the waiting room.

"So, when are you going to give him a little brother or sister?"

And a plethora of doctors . . .

". . . complete simple syndactyly of both the fingers and toes . . ."

. . . and nurses . . .

". . . check your episiotomy if we could clear the room, please . . ."

. . . and she thought someone had brought in lunch and birth forms . . .

". . . O-L-I-V-E-R . . ."

. . . but it was all kind of a haze really.

". . . home tomorrow afternoon . . ."

That might have been the drugs . . .

". . . okay? I just . . . I just had, like, a baby, man . . ."

. . . at least a little bit.

So she was kinda overwhelmed.

". . . for you, darling?"

And shaking.

"Uh, Valium?"

* * *

 _She's pale, Dot._

 _She just had a baby, Bette. It's not easy._

 _I know. I remember._

 _We should get everyone out here._

 _Yes. Give them time._

"Why don't we all go get some coffee?"

"Discuss little Jimmy's future?"

 _Jimmy, Sister. She named him Jimmy._

 _Well, technically, I think she named him James._

 _And our big Jimmy hasn't stopped crying about it yet._

 _Neither have we._

 _I know._

"Sounds like a plan. You kids be okay without us?"

"Yeah, Daddy, thanks. Thanks, Ma-Da. Thanks, Ma-Ba."

"Of course, darling."

"We love you."

"We love you too."

"We love you, Little Jimmy."

"He loves you."

"Come on, everybody. Pie's on me."

"'Bye, Annabel, Patrick."

"'Bye."

"'Bye."

"'Bye now."

"'Bye. Thanks."

And then the door closed, leaving Annabel and Patrick all alone.

With their little baby.

James Oliver Anderson.

* * *

 _Whew._

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You okay?"

"No. My vagina hurts."

"I'm sorry."

"Did you watch it?"

"Yeah."

"Was it bad?"

Careful non-grimace Patrick Pause.

"Yeah."

"It felt bad."

"I can imagine."

 _The hell you can._

 _You and your damn dick._

Quiet.

"I got to cut the cord."

"That's cool."

More quiet.

Blessed, overwhelming quiet.

With a baby.

"He's beautiful, Annabel."

"I know."

"He's perfect."

"He's not perfect. His fingers and toes are fused."

Consideration.

"The doctor said it was mostly skin, said they could be separated."

More quiet.

Then firm but gentle, even so.

"And he _is_ perfect."

"I know."

And then she was crying all over again.

"Annabel-"

"No, I'm okay. I'm okay. The nurse said it's just the hormones."

* * *

So everyone was gone.

And everything was quiet.

Well, mostly quiet.

Patrick was there.

Breathing evenly in light sleep slumped in the chair next to the bed.

She thought he had been sitting there watching her and the baby and nodded off.

An acceptable reaction considering he'd been awake and vigilant for nearly three straight days.

So she didn't begrudge him . . .

 _Just you and me, baby. Until that nurse comes back in to check my busted hoo-ha again._

. . . a little sleep.

The baby was doing well.

He had pooped.

"Um, Annabel, is it supposed to be black?"

"Why do you think I would know? Hang on, let me ring the nurse . . ."

Tried to eat.

"Is he latched?"

"I don't know. I'm not used to being a milk cow."

Cried.

"Why is he crying?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's pissed 'cause it's so much, you know, _much_ out here."

And slept.

"You know you can put him down while he's sleeping, Patrick."

"No."

And now, her one night in the hospital . . .

"Just one night? But . . . my hoo-ha's all broken."

"What?"

. . . and she couldn't sleep.

She couldn't.

Because she had to keep looking at him.

She couldn't stop.

He was here.

Her baby in her arms.

All seven pounds, fourteen ounces and nineteen inches of him.

The one she had waited six hundred million years for, had gone through so much ungodly pain to have.

The boy.

Her son.

Her child.

He was just . . . this little thing.

This little thing with a scrunched up face and wadded up little hands.

All wrapped up in a hospital thing and hat.

He was so . . . little.

 _This is mine?_

And so . . .

 _My baby is ninety year old pissed-off old man._

. . . grumpy-looking.

She lay on her side, all curled up in her narrow hospital bed with what she swore was the flattest pillow on the planet.

And stared . . .

 _Hi, baby._

. . . at her son.

Patrick was right, she had decided to decide.

He was absolutely perfect in every single aspect.

His little baby face.

His little baby head, still kind of pointed from so long in the birth canal.

His little baby ears and nose and eyes and mouth.

And toes and knees and elbows and belly and chest.

Even his weird little baby butt was perfect.

Everything was perfect.

Except his hands.

His hands were not perfect.

They were fused.

The fingers, not the hands.

There were four of them on each side.

Four plus thumb.

Pointer, middle, ring, and pinky.

On the left, the ring and pinky were fused together and the pointer and middle were fused together.

Like Daddy's wooden hands.

Only kinda straighter.

She thought.

On the right, the middle and ring were fused, leaving the pointer and pinky free and independent,

Mismatched hands, like her mismatched eyes.

Tiny and flexible and bendy and everything alright.

Just . . . different.

 _He's gonna be able to give people one hell of a finger._

 _Which if he's my kid he'll want to do a lot._

She had inspected them, gently pressed her fingers to the spaces that should have been separate.

Feeling the bones that seemed normal, just buried in extra flesh.

Not that she was a doctor or anything.

Because doctors didn't kiss the little hands either.

And they didn't kiss the little noses or little foreheads or bury their faces in their baby's soft, soft skin either.

Or cry for reasons they couldn't quite comprehend either.

 _Hi, baby._

Which is what Annabel kept doing.

Even though she couldn't quite explain . . .

 _Hi._

. . . why.

* * *

 **Crying for no reason? Yup.**

 **Slightly overwhelmed and bewildered? Yup.**

 **All totally normal. Especially after such an intense labor.**

 **How do you like the name? Pretty basic maybe but believe it or not, it took me forever to decide.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 for motivating me to finish this chapter. I hope it's satisfying.**

 **Back to work for me tomorrow so I'm going to take a little posting break to focus. But there's much more to tell so stay tuned!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing! You're wonderful readers! :D**

 **See you again after while!**

 ***wanders confusedly back to work***


	72. The Tale of Daisy The Brandon Milk Cow

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Tale of Daisy the Brandon Milk Cow

* * *

Home was still home.

Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Baby room. Bedroom.

And she couldn't really see any of it.

She was just sort of . . . vaguely aware.

It was all just a haze.

 _I got this, I got this, I got this._

"He's crying."

"Yeah, I _know_ he's crying."

"I think he's hungry."

"How can you tell?"

"I don't know. It just seems like he's hungry."

"Huh."

 _I don't got this._

She was _trying_ to feed him, the baby.

Supposedly these huge, swollen, godawful painful things hanging off her front were just built just _for_ that.

"Come on, come on . . ."

And the milk was there.

"Come on . . ."

She just couldn't . . .

"Is he latched, darling?"

"I don't know. I've never done this before. What does it feel like?"

. . . make it come _out._

"It just . . . feels like the milk is coming down."

"What the hell does _that_ feel like?"

"Well . . ."

She was on day three now at home.

Day three of trying to breastfeed.

And it absolutely . . .

"We had trouble with you, darling."

. . . completely . . .

"Uh huh."

. . . freaking . . .

"But we didn't give up."

. . . _sucked_.

"Uh huh."

Like . . .

"You can do this, darling."

. . . mondo . . .

"We believe in you."

. . . suckage.

"Thanks."

Except the baby. The baby did _not_ suck.

Milk, anyway.

She guessed he tried.

"Is he latched?"

She sure as hell knew _she_ tried.

"I swear to God if you ask me that _one_ more time I'm going to scream."

Day and night she tried.

"I mean, it's what your moms said."

And the baby cried.

"Yeah, and I couldn't answer them either."

And she cried.

"I'm sorry, I guess I'm just a terrible mother."

And Patrick tried.

"No, you're not. You're a good mother."

Warm compresses.

"I can't even feed my own damn baby."

Massage.

"It's not your fault."

Expressing.

"Isn't this what women are supposed to be able to do?"

Proper placement, of course.

"Yeah. I guess."

And _re_ -placement.

"Well, there you go. I'm a women. And I'm a failure."

During her round the clock attempted feedings.

"Annabel-"

Tickling the baby's feet.

"No. Just leave us alone."

Soaking in epsom salt.

"Do you want me to call your moms?"

Hot showers.

"No, they've done enough. I've just got to do it myself."

Increasing her water intake.

"Annabel-"

Increasing her water intake _more_.

"Go _away_ , Patrick!"

And even . . .

"Come on, come on, come _on_ -"

. . . more.

* * *

But the baby cried.

And Annabel cried.

And the baby lost weight.

While Annabel's Dolly Parton mammary glands grew red and hard and more and more painful.

"Darling, maybe we should take you . . ."

". . . to the doctor."

"No! I've had a baby! I've been to the doctor enough! I just need to get this milk _out_!"

"Darling, you just need to-"

"Moms, I'm _trying_!"

* * *

"Patrick, I can't do this!"

Five days into motherhood and Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson was a completely exhausted.

And a mental wreck.

"I just . . . I can't . . ."

And still unable to feed her starving child.

"Annabel, do you want me to go get a baby bottle and some baby formula?"

Hesitation.

Heaving, pain-filled chest.

Crying baby in her arms.

Finally . . .

 _"Please."_

And then she cried while he was gone.

When he returned.

And the entire time she fed James . . .

"Oh my god."

"What?"

"He drank the whole bottle!"

"How much was it?"

"Uh . . . four ounces?"

"Wow."

. . . his very first bottle.

"Patrick?"

"Yes?"

"He stopped crying."

"I know."

Patrick Pause.

"Annabel?"

"Yeah?"

"Want me to hold him while you take a nap?"

Tears filling her eyes again.

 _"Yes."_

And then she slept for nine hours.

* * *

Knock, knock, knock.

 _That's the kitchen door._

 _Annabel._

It wasn't.

"Well hello, Patrick! Hello, little Jimmy!"

The orphan husband of Annabel had an unusual set to his usual mild mannered expression even as he smiled at his hugged baby and accepted the offered hugs for himself.

"Hi. I wanted to talk to you."

 _What is going on, Sister?_

 _I don't know._

 _He looks like he hasn't slept since they got home._

 _So does Annabel. Remember when she burst in tears yesterday when we were there because dropped her napkin?_

 _Should we be worried?_

 _I'm not sure._

"Come on in and have a seat, darling."

"Would you like some iced tea?"

Vague rocking motion of the sleeping baby as the new daddy seated himself.

"No. Thanks though."

A moment of quiet.

 _Sister-_

 _Shhh-_

"Where's Annabel?"

Briefest of Patrick Pause.

"She's taking a nap."

 _Oh thank goodness._

 _Finally._

 _What a good da-_

"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

Careful words. Determined tone.

"Annabel's really been killing herself trying to breastfeed. She's been really miserable and it hasn't even been working."

 _I know, poor th-_

"We got some formula a little while ago and bottle-fed the baby."

 _Oh_ -

"He ate really well and stopped crying. He's been asleep for almost three hours."

 _Well_ -

"I think that's what we're going to do now. Bottlefeed."

 _But_ -

"And I want you to support her on this and not make her feel guilty about it because she's still a good mom even if she's not breastfeeding."

And then he stopped talking.

And just sat.

As they stared at them.

And he held their gaze.

And then-

 _Sister-_

 _Yes._

 _I know._

 _He-_

 _-is just beautiful._

 _So beautiful._

 _I love this boy._

 _So much._

-they smiled.

"We understand, Patrick."

"You both have our complete and absolute support."

And the man, seeming to have worked himself up so much just to have the courage to disagree with the only family he had ever had, released a deep exhalation of breath.

And smiled.

"Thank you."

* * *

"Hey, was somebody here while I was in the shower?"

"Yes, darling. It was Patrick and Little Jimmy."

"He wanted to tell us he and Annabel have decided to bottlefeed."

Jimmy absorbed this information thoughtfully for a fraction of a second.

"Okay. Sounds good to me."

As they started to return to The American Parade, Jimmy cut in again.

"You mean the baby was here and I didn't get to see him?"

* * *

So they got cabbage leaves to cool her inflamed, aching breasts.

And an entire paycheck's worth of bottles and Gerber formula.

And went to work.

Feeding the now ravenous . . .

"I think the baby is hungry."

"You want me to feed him, Annabel?"

"Sure. Thanks. And I'll just . . . I guess I'll . . . maybe I should . . ."

"Do something for yourself?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Uh . . . sure?"

Annabel pause, having learned from the best.

"I can't remember what that would be. Huh."

. . . newborn.

* * *

"Annabel, darling, about your decision to breastfeed-"

"Yeah, I know, Ma-Ba, I know, I just-"

"We clipped some coupons out of the grocery ad for you!"

"Oh. Thank you."

"Of course, darling!"

"Hey, I'm here!"

"Hey, Daddy, I-"

"Patrick said I could feed the baby!"

"Oh. He did?"

"Yep!"

* * *

Not everybody was so accepting though.

Patty, mother of the horde and preggo with number five, come to drop off casserole and peek in at the baby.

"Oh my, what a big bottle in that poor little baby's mouth."

 _Would you rather see my big, engorged left breast, you pretentious bitch? I can still kick out your knees._

But most people who descended upon their humble abode . . .

"Oh honey, what I wouldn't have given for baby formula and Huggies when I was raising my own."

"Really, Aunt Kathy?"

"Oh yes, I may be a spendthrift but I would have gladly doled out the money for those. And a husband who would have helped with them too. It's exhausting being a milkcow."

 _I love you, Aunt Kathy._

. . . were a little more, well, real.

"Now where's that baby?"

 _Funny that you mention . . ._

"Well . . ."

* * *

 **Hello, all! Missed you guys! Adult life is overwhelming, gah!**

 **Kind of like Annabel has been feeling, huh?**

 **Realistic tho. Trust me, I know!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, smclendon, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing way back in July and being so kind as to wait all this time. I really appreciate you guys, seriously, I do.**

 **Got another chapter lined up for you next weekend wherein they tackle another unforeseen problem of parenthood.**

 **See you then!**


	73. Custodial Rights

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Custodial Rights

* * *

The problem was that once Annabel _gave_ their firstborn child to his daddy . . .

"Okay, time for a bottle. Patrick, hand me the baby."

"Oh, I'll feed him."

. . . he just didn't seem to . . .

"I think he pooped. Here, I'll change him."

"I can do it."

. . . to want to give him _back_.

"Here, Patrick. I'll hold him while you make lunch."

"That's okay. I can stir the macaroni with one hand."

He just . . .

"I'm going to go over to your parents' and give your dad back his hammer."

"Okay. Here, I'll take the baby."

"He's already asleep on me. I can do it without waking him."

. . . wouldn't . . .

"I've got to go to the bathroom."

"Well, here, give me the baby."

"I'm good. I don't have to put him down to go."

. . . let . . .

"Patrick, you know you can put him down to sleep, right?"

"I will later. Night Court's coming on."

. . . him . . .

"Did you just take a shower with the baby?"

"Yeah."

. . . go.

"How?"

Patrick Shrug, Sheepish Grin.

"I just snuggled him against my chest and kinda let the water spray us both. It was only a rinse anyway."

"And he didn't cry?"

"No. He just kind of . . . blinked."

 _Well, hell._

"Really?"

"Yeah. You should try it. It's great."

* * *

She _would_ have tried it.

"Patrick, can I have the baby?"

 _Might_ have anyway.

"Here, Patrick, I'll take the baby."

If she could have gotten her _hands_ on him.

"Mind if I change the baby, Patrick?"

But . . .

"That's okay."

". . . she couldn't . . .

"I'll do it."

. . . quite . . .

"Oh, that's okay, he's already comfortable."

". . . seem to."

And for a few days . . .

"Oh. Okay."

. . . as her milk started to dry up . . .

"Alright."

. . . and her body started to heal . . .

"Um, okay."

. . . it was okay.

"Well, have it your way."

Until it wasn't.

"Patrick, can I see the baby please?"

"I don't want to wake him up. He's sleeping."

He never said 'no' to her.

He just . . .

"Well-"

"Um-"

"Oh-"

"Er-"

. . . found reasons to not to.

Until she finally . . .

 _Okay, Daddy-o._

"Patrick."

 _Let's have a go._

"Yeah?"

. . . had enough.

 _'Cause, listen, honey-_

"He's my baby too."

Patrick Pause. Annabel Stare.

Baby Unconsciousness.

"Well, he's . . . I just . . ."

Embarrassed smile.

"I just wanted to let you rest."

"I did."

"And eat."

"I did."

"And recover."

"I _am_."

"And-"

"Patrick-"

Embarrassed Daddy realization.

Pause.

Baby snort.

Brief staring contest.

"Okay."

"Thank you."

Careful transference.

Squelching up of baby face.

Lip pucker.

Tiniest of whimpers.

"Oh, see, he's waking up, I better-"

"No, I _got_ him."

Settling of rising cry.

Continued sleep.

"See? He's just fine."

Muted downcast expression.

"Oh. That's . . . good."

And then Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson smiled gently.

Looked at her disheveled, weary, baby-focused husband.

Pretending not to gaze forlornly at the week and a half old infant that was no longer in his arms.

And Annabel reached out a hand.

Stroking his scruffier-than-usual cheek.

"I love you, Patrick. You're amazing."

Watched him tear his eyes away from his newborn son.

And rise to meet her gaze.

And smile.

"I love you too, Annabel."

She felt a swell in her heart.

"You should rest too. You'll be back on duty in a few hours, baby, don't worry."

And his eyes lightened ever so subtly.

"Okay."

 _God, I love him._

* * *

She didn't really trust herself to not drop the baby whilst all suds up.

 _I mean, like, I'm_ really _clumsy._

So she went for a tub bath . . .

"Hey, baby."

. . . instead.

Not cold, not scalding.

 _This is so weird._

Just her and her baby, skin to skin.

Warm, soothing bathwater.

Baby cradled up on her only partially paining chest.

And it was . . .

 _Wow._

. . . great.

There in the old, cream colored tub . . .

 _This is so relaxing._

. . . dipping a hand down into the bubbly water, bringing it up, and gently caressing the super soft skin of her son's partially submerged body.

 _So this is the good part._

Ans Annabel finally found some equilibrium and levity for the first time . . .

 _Oh my god, he's just so peaceful._

. . . in a long time.

 _Wow. I totally love this._

* * *

It made her breasts leak with the milk that he would no longer even pretend to attempt.

 _Of course._

And she was soiling the water down below just a little so much anymore though.

 _But dammit, I'm doing my best here, people._

And well, there were always cleanup towels too.

So she just decided . . .

"Hey, baby."

. . . to set an egg timer . . .

"I love you."

. . . and let it be.

* * *

After that, Patrick still held the baby.

Annabel still let him.

And he let her.

And Bette and Dot.

And Jimmy.

And whoever else trustworthy they encountered.

Even though one could always tell Patrick wanted him back pretty quickly.

The baby room was cute.

All done up with a crib and rocking chair, and side table, and rug, and changing table.

The crib being really more ornamental that anything else.

"You must teach the baby to sleep alone or he will always sleep with you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Francis."

"You let him sleep with you and he'll still be there when he's a big boy."

"Thank you, Mrs. Francis."

"You'll never get him out and he'll always be a little titty baby."

"Um, we have to go now, Mrs. Francis."

Because he still slept on his daddy.

His mommy.

His grandmothers.

"Don't you want to come to the table for supper?"

"Oh, we'll eat in a bit. You go on ahead. We're having a little grandma time."

His hook-handed grandaddy.

"Look, girls, he's holding my lobster claw in _his_ lobster claw."

And just about anybody else that managed to nab him while he was sleeping.

"Are babies supposed to sleep this much, Moms?"

"Absolutely."

"Shouldn't we keep him awake in the daytime?"

"Don't you dare! You let him sleep when he wants to and he'll adjust after while."

"He's just been _born_ , darling. He can't deal with the world yet and he's growing so fast, he needs his rest. You just let him be."

"Well, Okay. If you say so."

"Trust us."

* * *

She really didn't know _why_ they had ever bothered to name him.

James Oliver Anderson.

Such a good name.

Daddy's first.

And Patrick's middle.

"We're not going to name him 'David', are we?"

"What? No, why?"

"Or Bowie?"

"Patrick. No, baby."

"Okay."

Relieved Patrick Pause.

"Well, what should we name him the ? It has to be something that matters."

"I have an idea."

And so it was.

She would have worked Ma-Da and Ma-Ba in there too if she could have figured it.

But none of that mattered anyway.

She could have named him RadioHead for all that they called him.

The Baby.

"Shhh, The Baby's sleeping."

"Hey, I gotta feed The Baby."

"Okay, The Baby pooped again. Your turn."

"I wish I was half as perfect as The Baby."

 _I thought we gave this kid a real name. How will he ever know what it is if he never hears it?_

"Hey, Patrick, I think The Baby's cold, will you hand me a blanket?"

 _Oh well. Maybe some other day._

* * *

 **Ah, yes, the delirium of baby days. I remember it well.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing!**

 **Thanks to IanAlphaAxel for adding your support as well!**

 **Now, it seems there is another member of the family who's been a little overlooked for a while in all the baby excitement. It happens.**


	74. Little Jimmy's Big Brother Sam

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Little Jimmy's Big Brother Sam

* * *

Scruffy Sam the Sublime was going through some life changes too.

Firstly, he had observed his kind and gentle master evolve from a withdrawn, dour hooman into a slightly more outgoing, lighter-hearted hooman.

All because of The Girl.

Not The Bad Girl.

The Bad Girl that kicked Sam when Sam's hooman wasn't looking-

"Stupid mutt. You're always _here_."

-and took all of Sam's hooman's rectangles from his cow skin when he wasn't looking was gone.

The Good Girl played sounds that made Sam's hooman happier.

Unless they made him cry.

Which hoomans needed to do sometimes.

And then, after a while, The Good Girl had become Their Girl.

And stayed.

Which made Sam's hooman happy.

"Where are the chocolate chip cookies?"

Except when someone had eaten all the chocolate chip cookies.

The Good Girl was nice and stayed and didn't yell.

Except sometimes when the door . . .

"Oh yes! Oh god, yes!"

. . . was closed.

Sam liked The Good Girl.

She scratched nice and never kicked.

And she made Sam's hooman happy.

And then The Good Girl and Sam's hooman took them away to a hot place where the air was thick and wet and heavy.

"Hey, sweet puppy, who's a sweet puppy, yes, you, you're a sweet puppy . . ."

And there were even more nice hoomans.

Sam watched while The Good Girl first became A Mean Girl, and then A Good Girl again.

And then A Big Tired Girl With a Big Belly That Smelled Different and Slept Alot.

And then everything changed again.

* * *

"Hey there, pup, you doin' okay?"

 _Whine._

When the Grand Labor and Birth of one James Oliver Anderson had finally, finally, _finally_ commenced, he had been unwittingly subjected to an abrupt bout of to and fro shuffling.

"Hey, Patty, can you guys keep Annabel and Patrick's dog for a few days?"

"Yes, I'm sure the children would love to take care of him!"

"Err, oh, on second thought . . ."

And then when the baby was finally born and arrived home, the transit pooch had lived, just for a few days . . .

"Don't worry, Sam, Mommy and Daddy just have a new baby, that's all . . ."

. . . with the Walkers.

"How's Sam?"

Who cared for him, yes.

 _Quick-_

But were also . . .

"Oh-"

. . . understandably . . .

 _-we forgot to feed the dog!_

. . . distracted . . .

". . . just fine, just fine, Patrick . . ."

. . . themselves.

 _Dammit!_

". . . don't you worry about a thing."

Frantic waving at the bewildered new grandfather.

"You just . . .

Miming eating.

". . . take care of that sweet baby . . ."

Gesturing at the pitiful pup prone on the kitchen floor.

". . . and we'll take care of your other . . ."

Awareness dawning on the older man's face.

". . . sweet baby, don't you worry."

And the dog got fed.

"Okay, thanks."

And then they strove to be much more diligent . . .

"We're so sorry, sweet boy . . ."

". . . we just got caught up in our other sweet boy."

. . . after that.

* * *

There had been a conversation with the nurse on duty before they had left the hospital.

"Do you have any pets in the home?"

"A dog. Little terrier mix."

"Outside?"

"No. Indoor."

"Have you acclimated it to the baby's belongings, the new routine you'll be setting down?"

"Uh, no."

"You know, dogs can become hostile toward new babies that are brought in. They can view them as a threat."

 _What? Scruffy Sam the Sublime? You're joking._

"They might growl at them, bite them. Some have even tried to smother them."

 _But-_

"Sam wouldn't do that."

Grim expression.

"The people always think that until it happens."

And Annabel and Patrick had just known that could never, ever happen with their Scruffy Sam.

Until the baby was born.

And was so tiny and helpless.

And sweet and soft and vulnerable.

And theirs.

Then . . .

"You don't think there'll be any problems, do you, Patrick?"

Patrick Pause.

"No."

* * *

And when Scruffy Sam the Sublime did finally come home . . .

"Hey, oh, sorry, Sam-"

"Careful of The Baby, Sam!"

"Oh hang on, Sam, I know you need to go for a walk. Let me just change The Baby first."

. . . it was not quite the home he remembered.

"Did you poop again, Baby?!"

Full of new smells.

"Why are you crying, Baby? Huh?"

Full of new sounds.

"Oh my god, did you see what just came out of The Baby's nose?!"

And full of new sights.

"Patrick, can you take the dog out for a walk while I take care of The Baby?"

"You mean, he hasn't gone yet?"

And generally just different altogether.

"No. I've been, you know, parenting here."

Overwhelming.

"Sorry, Sam. Do you need to go?"

 _Whine._

* * *

"Patrick!"

Urgent whisper.

"What?"

Waving hand.

"Look."

Carefully approaching father.

"I just put The Baby down for a minute. Just long enough to pee, right? Look."

Hand rising unconsciously to cover mouth.

"Awwwww . . ."

And proud, proud human and canine parents.

"Do you think we should separate them?"

Of both . . .

"No. Look at Sam's big eyes. He loves him. He'd never hurt him."

. . . their sweet babies.

* * *

"Seriously, Daddy, you should have seen it-"

Truthfully, though-

"He was just cuddled up next to The Baby."

-it was just a dog-

"And The Baby, he just loved it."

-and a baby-

"He was like his own little living stuffed animal."

-on the couch together.

"And Sam just had these big eyes."

But for the new parents-

"I just cried, it was so beautiful."

-it really meant-

"Why didn't you holler at us to come see?"

-the whole world.

"I told you. I was too busy crying!"

And really signaled that-

"Ah."

-so many more of their worries and cares-

"Patrick got a picture though."

-were all for nothing.

"That's my boy!"

* * *

After that . . .

"Come here, Scruffy Sam and help me feed The Baby."

"Come here, Sam, and help me rock The Baby to sleep."

"Sam, is it okay if The Baby comes with us on our walks?"

. . . Scruffy Sam the Sublime became not only the best canine baby snuggler in the whole wide world . . .

"Hey, Sam, which onesie do you think The Baby would like? Baby Spit-Up Blue or Baby Spit-Up Orange?"

. . . but an intergal part of the baby raising operation . . .

 _Yip!_

"Got it."

. . . entirely.

Because . . .

"Baby Spit-Up Orange it is then."

. . . now there were even more hoomans around.

"Thanks."

One of them quite small.

* * *

 **A new baby can be tough on everyone involved.**

 **And yes, I know how to spell 'human'. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing.**


	75. Then Yoko Had To Break Up The Band

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Then Yoko Had To Break Up the Band

* * *

There was feeding time, wherein The Baby was fed.

Then promptly seemed to spit up what he had just eaten.

There was changing time wherein the diaper he had expertly filled with whatever he hadn't vomited was taken off him with much involuntary nose scrunching and mutterings of disbelief and dismay.

There was bath time wherein the world's cleanest infant was once again made even cleaner.

There was play time. Which mostly just involved nonsensical sweet verbalings and gentle, playful moving of the baby's extremities.

And there was sleeping time.

Wherein anyone and everyone involved with The Baby either watched his tender face drift in unconsciousness or fell asleep themselves.

Because . . .

"He'll be up again in an hour anyway."

. . . well, it was all the time they had in the world.

* * *

"Patrick? Are you still going to work for my dad in the store?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because, uh, well, you haven't gone to work in, like, three weeks."

Long, drawn out Patrick Pause.

Finally . . .

"Oh, um, well, I was helping take care of The Baby while you were healing."

"Thank you."

Patrick Pause, a little longer.

"Oh. Okay. So. I guess I better go?"

Guilt washed Annabel.

 _But he'll miss his child . . ._

"Yeah. I think so."

Silence.

Deep and full of thought, consideration.

And possible rebuttal.

All unspoken . . .

"Okay."

. . . in light of harsh reality.

* * *

"Hey, Jimmy."

"Hey, Patrick. How are ya?"

"Fine."

 _Talky kid, this one. Always has been._

"Everything alright?"

"Yes."

 _I'd say 'hen's teeth' but I've never seen 'em._

"So, um . . ."

 _Oh, please, don't pause on me, kid. My prostate's actin' up lately and I gotta-_

"I was wondering what time you'd like me to come in to work tomorrow."

 _Oh. Well-_

"Uh, okay. How about just before eight, then? We'll walk in together. Sound okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

* * *

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Guess I'm off then."

"Okay."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

"Burble."

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Did The Baby say something?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Oh. Okay. Well. 'Bye."

"Bye."

"Burble."

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah. He's burbling."

"Hmmm, maybe I better stay, I mean, he seems like he could get kind of fussy and I don't want you to have to-"

"Patrick."

"Yeah?"

"It's fine. I got this."

"Oh."

"And besides-"

Teasing attempt at a joke to lighten Daddy's growing separation anxiety-

"I've got Scruffy Sam the Sublime here to help me out."

Patrick Pause, severely shortened by aforementioned growing anxiety.

"He's a dog, Annabel."

 _Damn, baby._

"You wanna get your ass beat by a terrier, just keep talkin', Sweet Cheeks McGee. He doesn't appreciate insults."

Anxious shuffling.

"Annabel, I just-"

"Patrick?"

"What?"

"It will be alright, okay? Call me at lunch."

Hesitation. Steadfastness.

Defeat.

"Okay. 'Bye."

"'Bye."

"'Bye, Baby."

"He said 'bye'."

"'Bye, Sam."

"He said 'Bye'."

"Okay. Well-"

"'Bye, Patrick."

Long pause.

"'Bye."

The door shut.

 _Whew._

 _Well, I guess it's just you and me, Ba-_

 _Oh. You're asleep._

"Well, Scruffy S-"

 _Oh._

 _You people are useless._

* * *

"Mornin', Patrick. Good to see ya."

"Good morning."

Mildly chilly winter sun.

"You okay?"

Half-hearted Patrick nod.

Jimmy consideration.

"Alright then. Let's get a move on."

The short walk to the store seemed incredibly long.

* * *

"Hey, there, Patrick. You okay?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Because you've got a face longer than that deli counter you've been wiping down for the past ten minutes."

"Oh. Sorry."

Manager and store owner hook-handed shrug.

"No apology needed."

Resumed dour stoicism.

 _Like a funeral in here._

Finally broken by-

"Ya know, uh, business is a little slow today. Want to duck out early?"

Counter cleaning consideration.

"It's only 2:30."

Shrug.

"2:34, I think. Gettin' on toward four, huh?"

Continued counter cleaning.

"I don't want to be-"

"You guys are runnin' low on milk at home, aren'tcha?"

Mild suggestion.

"Yeah. Maybe. I'm not sure."

Shuffling of hook-handed store proprietor.

"Well, my daughter really likes her NestleQuik an awful lot. And you know, what with her coming off of pregnancy and all . . ."

Clearing of the throat.

". . . she needs all the calcium she can get."

Silence.

Determined waiting.

Slow dawning of realization.

"Oh. Okay. I guess you're right. Uh, so . . . I should . . . take some milk home to her?"

"And The Baby."

"And The Baby."

Momentary confused consideration.

"But The Baby doesn't drink milk yet."

Long-suffering, patient, slightly squinty-eyed expression Elsa Mars would have been impressed by.

"Oh. Okay. Guess I better go then."

"Yep. Guess so."

And that was that.

* * *

Only it wasn't.

"Hi! Anybody home?"

 _What the hell?_

"Patrick? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

Casual Patrick shrug, even as he reached for his freshly changed son.

"No, nothing's wrong. Your dad just sent me home early."

And snuggled him close.

"Why?"

Cheek to cheek.

"He said you needed milk."

Father to son.

"We've got plenty of milk."

Love to love.

"Oh. Okay."

Soul to soul.

Moment of pause; Annabel speculation.

"So where is the milk?"

Patrick confusion.

"What milk?"

* * *

"Daddy."

"Hey, Annabel!"

"What are you doing?"

 _Uhhh . . ._

"Standin' in the backyard in the sun, talking to my favorite daughter-"

But she wasn't having it.

"Daddy. Why did you send Patrick home early?"

Raised eyebrows from the former Lobster Boy.

"Well, he missed The Baby and-"

"Daddy, he's got to go to work! He can't just not do it!"

Jimmy could only think of one logical response.

"You are."

Now it was his grown daughter's turn to raise her eyebrows above her brown and green eyes.

"I'm his _mother_."

"Yeah. And he's his father."

Irritated squincing up of the nose.

"Daddy-"

And Jimmy Darling Walker crossed his hooks in front of him.

A movement that always reminded him he no longer had real hands.

But there were more important matters to attend to just then than his thirty-year old remorse.

"Annabel, that boy has never had a family. He's never gotten to be a part of something really special like that baby. I'd venture to say he's afraid of missing out, not being the daddy he wants to be. Are you really gonna fault him for that?"

A good speech.

But Annabel held her ground.

" _You_ didn't have a dad. And you still went to work."

Resolute Jimmy.

Nodding even so.

"Yep, that's the truth. But I didn't own the store and we didn't have the extra money then. We do now and I _do_ own the store and that boy's part of _my_ family and _my_ store and _I_ say he can work part time for a while. And if there's a difference needs to be made up, we'll make it up."

Jimmy stopped talking.

Annabel chewed her lip.

"You not want him around or something?" her father asked her softly.

And watched as Annabel shook her head.

"No! I _love_ having him there! I wish he was there _all_ the time. Well, _almost_ all the time."

Refocusing.

"I just . . . I just don't want him to learn not to work. I don't want us to . . . mooch off you guys all the time. I don't want to be that kind of person."

And Jimmy hugged his little girl.

 _God, I love her, Ma._

And spoke gently.

"I don't think Patrick's that kind of guy, Annabel. I think he's just enjoying having what he never had."

He kissed the top of her head.

"Let's ease him into it, okay? Being away from his kid? I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

She seemed to think for a minute.

Chew that bottom lip a little more.

And manage a smile for her father.

"Okay, Daddy."

"I love you, Annabel."

"I love you too, Daddy."

* * *

"So, Patrick - boy, girls, these green beans are good, what's on top of this?"

"French-fried onions."

"Wow, that's sure something. Anyway, Patrick - how'd you think you put something like in there, Bette?"

"Good Housekeeping."

"Oh. Well, anyway, Patrick, we were thinking, maybe working at the store just mornings for a while. How'd you feel about that?"

Patrick Pause.

"Sure. If that's okay with you-"

Jimmy opened his mouth to speak around a sweet roll.

Patrick beat him to the punch.

"-, Annabel?"

Silence reigned.

Wherein the baby burbled.

And Scruffy Sam the Sublime patiently waited for dropped morsel.

Maybe two.

"Yeah. I'm okay with that."

Jimmy watched the young married lovers smile at each other.

First, Annabel to Patrick. Then Patrick returning.

And then Patrick turned to Jimmy.

"Okay. That sounds good. Thank you, sir."

Jimmy said nothing, only held the boy's gaze.

And the boy, a little slow on the uptake from lack of sleep, finally realized acquiesced.

"Jimmy."

And Jimmy smiled.

More quiet.

Burbling.

Watchful pooch.

And an exhalation of breath.

"Alright then. So, girls! What's for dessert? I've got a hankering for pudding!"

Bette's sly smile.

"Well, what a coincidence, Darling. We've just the pudding for you-"

Dot joining in.

"But it'll have to wait until our guests leave. We're not exhibitionists, Jimmy."

"We don't even show our _toes_ in public."

"Moms! Oh my _god_ -"

* * *

 **Hello!**

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I think it's fairly realistic. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing!**

 **See you guys again soon!**


	76. Mommies and Daddies and The Like

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Mommies and Daddies and The Like

* * *

 _Let's get this cloth and go, Sister. I want to get home to see my little man!_

 _So do I, shall we stab out of our way with these new knitting needles?_

 _I'm not entirely against it._

People stared.

People always stared.

But Bette and Dot Tattler Darling Walker had errands to run.

And cloth to buy.

And people had learned to stare quietly.

Even though . . .

"Why, good afternoon, Bette, Dot!"

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Holloway."

. . . there was always friendly encounter or two.

"Nice to see you again."

"How is Annabel's new baby?"

"Oh, growing like a weed, Mrs. Holloway!"

"Just like a weed."

"My, my, I just don't believe it. Seems like just yesterday she was getting married, doesn't it?"

 _Oooh, sneaky._

"Why, yes-"

 _Careful now, Bette._

 _Worry not, Dear Dot. Watch this._

"- time does seem to just fly, doesn't it? And how is Christine, poor thing? Another divorce, we heard? Poor dear."

"Well, um, yes, well . . ."

 _That was cold, Bette._

 _All in the name of motherly love and protection, Sister._

* * *

"Who's got sweet little toesie-wosies?"

"Yes, you've got sweet little toesie-wosies!"

"Yes, you do!"

 _Isn't he beautiful, Sister?_

 _So beautiful, Dot._

 _I have just never seen a baby quite so beautiful as-_

"How did you guys lose the baby weight?"

 _What on earth is she talking about?_

 _She's a skinny as a rail._

 _Well not yet but she's heading back that way._

 _Of course, she is. She's twenty-four._

 _Not yet she's not._

 _It just falls off for them, doesn't it?_

"We never really paid attention, darling."

"We don't even own a scale."

"We didn't really worry about it."

 _Don't say the breastfeeding helped._

 _No. Besides-_

"I don't think it ever really did all go away."

"But Jimmy sure never seemed to mind, did he, Sister?"

"No. As a matter of face, I think he likes it."

"Ma-Ba!"

"What, darling?"

"Why do you always _do_ that?"

"Do what, Annabel dear?"

"Talk about sex all the time!"

"We do not always talk about sex all the time, Annabel."

"Yes, you do! It's weird!"

"Why is it weird?"

"Because you're so . . . and Dad's so . . . it's just weird!"

"He is our husband, Annabel."

"I know that, Ma-Da. But you don't have to tell everyone all the time."

"We don't have to tell everyone that he's our husband?"

Annabel appeared exasperated.

"No. You don't always have to tell everyone that you have sex all the time!"

"We don't."

"Don't what?"

"Either."

Annabel seemed unconvinced.

 _Maybe she's just frustrated because she's not having enough sex with Patrick._

"Maybe you're just frustrated because you're not having enough sex with Patrick."

 _You said it._

 _I'm to that age, Sister._

Annabel's jaw dropped open.

"Wha- I- You- That's not-"

As she gaped at them, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. . .

 _Oh, dear._

 _She'll scream for sure now._

 _Well, she needed to hear it._

. . . her mothers smiled gently at her.

"Annabel," Dorothy Jean began. "Your life has spun around like a carnival ride in the span of less than a single year."

"It's easy to get lost in it," Elizabeth Ann continued. "You lose who you are and parts of yourself, especially when there's a needy baby involved."

"And that can be very frustrating," Dot continued.

"It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you," Bette surreshed.

"But now that things are evening out a little," Ma-Da continued. "It's alright to figure out who you are now."

"Just a little bit at time," Ma-Ba encouraged.

"It won't be the same as who you were before . . ."

". . . but it certainly is worth finding out."

Annabel, wide-eyed and stunned into silence, didn't respond immediately.

So they continued.

"Talk to Patrick."

"See if he'd be open to-"

"-us keeping The Baby on Friday evenings."

"Say around six."

"Until Saturday afternoon."

"Say after lunch?"

"Then you two can enjoy a little break-"

"-to do whatever you want."

"Go out for a date."

"Stay in and sleep."

"Anything."

"Just so long as you focus on yourselves."

"And each other."

"Doesn't that sound nice?"

Annabel continued to stare, eyes unblinking in the Florida sun.

 _She seems to have snapped in half, Sister._

 _Give her a minute._

"Did you, like, _anticipate_ my nervous breakdown or something?"

That's our daughter.

 _I adore her._

 _So do I._

"No."

"Not exactly."

"But we were young mothers once."

"Well, youngish."

"And we just want you to have-"

"-what we didn't."

"And you know our Jimmy-"

"-would just love to dote on that baby as much he could."

And Annabel was quiet.

Finally . . .

"Okay. I'll talk to Patrick."

"Good."

"Let us know!"

"Uh, okay. Thanks."

"You're welcome, darling."

"We love you."

"I love you two."

* * *

"So, uh, me and Patrick talked. And, uh, we wanted to know, uh, when you wanted to keep The Baby, uh, for, uh, the uh, . . ."

Never before had their dear darling daughter sounded so awkward and embarrassed.

"Sleepover?"

As she stood there in their kitchen.

"Yes! Uh, yeah."

And relieved.

"How about this Friday?"

Annabel nodded, expression distinctly uncomfortable and, in her words probably, weirded out.

"Okay. Cool. Thank you."

 _Oh, Sister . . ._

 _Our little girl's going to get laid!_

 _. . ._

 _Never mind._

 _Thank you._

* * *

"You are my sunshine-"

"-my only sunshine."

The Baby was dozing off in their arms.

"You make me happy-"

"-when skies are gray."

 _Look at us, Sister._

"You'll never know, dear-"

"-how much I love you."

 _We're doing alright._

"Please don't take-"

"-my sunshine away."

 _Especially for a pair of old biddies._

They rose slowly and smoothly.

Laying him down in Annabel's old crib.

 _We are not old biddies, Bette._

 _Yes, we are._

Covering him up to the chest in a blanket.

And backing away.

 _Speak for yourself._

 _I'll speak for us both, thank you._

As they stood up from their bent position over the crib, they groaned in unison, back catching painfully.

They stretched, hands reach back to either side.

 _Okay, maybe we are old biddies, Sister._

 _Just a little._

* * *

"Hi, Ma-Da! Hi, Ma-Ba!"

 _She's so much more relaxed!_

"Hello, darling!"

 _Yes, she is._

"Are you feeling better?

 _She must be. Look at that spring in her step._

"Yeah! I'm good."

 _I bet she is._

"Wonderful!"

 _I wonder how Patrick's doing._

 _Well, based on Jimmy's usual reactions, I'd say, happily unconscious._

 _. . ._

 _You know what? We_ do _talk about sex too much._

"How's The Baby?"

"Oh, he's just fine, darling. He's inside with your father."

"Dad's home?"

"Couldn't push him out the door to work this morning."

"Not with The Baby here."

"Oh."

* * *

 _Whew, I am tired, Sister._

 _I vote sandwiches for supper._

 _It'll be our new Saturday evening staple._

 _I also think-_

 _I couldn't agree more._

Jimmy woke them up an hour and a half . . .

"Hey, girls, you two okay?"

"Right as rain, darling."

"But don't ask us to rock you to sleep."

"Well, since you mention it . . ."

* * *

 **I would write something witty here but my toddlers are fighting over Thomas the Train toys. So I'll just say thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! :D**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing. :)**

 **Thanks also to Bella-Macabre f** **or adding your support to this story!**


	77. George Was A Good Little Monkey

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

George Was A Good Little Monkey

* * *

". . . talking away, I don't know what . . . I'm to say , I'll say it anyway . . ."

Eventually Annabel did turn the radio back on.

"Alright, child of mine, let's see what the tunes are, huh?"

". . . take . . . on . . . me . . ."

And when she did, . . .

". . . take on me . . ."

. . . she was . . .

 _What is_ this _?_

. . . completely and utterly transported.

". . . be gone . . ."

 _Wow. What note is that?_

* * *

The problem was . . .

". . . hear it for the boy . . ."

". . . love got to do . . . got to do with it . . ."

". . . missin' you at all . . ."

. . . radio d.j.s (like she had once been), tended to play different songs all the time.

". . . cruel, cruel, cruel summer . . ."

Not just the one and only one she wanted to hear . . .

". . . doves cry . . ."

. . . on a continuous loop.

And she couldn't quite bear to . . .

". . . hits that make you sing . . ."

. . . call in to the Tampa radio station . . .

". . . WIN-105 . . ."

. . . just so she could hear it.

I _don't call in to request songs._

 _People call_ me _to request songs._

And so . . .

"Come on, kid . . ."

. . . she went out on an adventure.

". . . we're heading to the record store!"

And The Baby burbly . . .

". . . bbbrruuuu . . ."

"Good, glad you're in agreement."

. . . agreed.

* * *

The Baby _seemed_ comfy enough.

She'd lined the cardboard box with his softest blanket.

Laid it in the passenger seat floorboard.

And laid The Baby, facing her . . .

"Ready to cruise?"

". . . bbllissshhh . . ."

"Good."

. . . in it.

Tucked him in.

 _Florida humidity._

 _He'll probably stroke out or something._

And slid into the driver's seat of her husband's . . .

 _Naw. He'll be fine._

. . . Volkswagen Rabbit.

Then she drove really, _really_ carefully.

* * *

He'd be okay for a minute.

 _I'm parked right out front._

 _The windows are rolled down for air._

 _It's not like he cares about records and cassette tapes anyway._

 _He's just a baby._

Annabel Margaret Walker got out of the car.

Shut the door.

And stood on the pavement of the May Florida afternoon.

Walked around the car.

And stopped again.

 _He's just a baby._

 _He doesn't_ know _._

And then . . .

 _Patrick wouldn't like it._

 _And if something happened, I'd never be able to forgive myself._

. . . she opened the passenger door.

"Come on, Kid, let me educate you a little in the world of music.

Picked up her baby.

And sashayed on in to the record store.

With her little man on her hip.

* * *

". . . seventy-five."

 _Damn. Do I really like this song that much?_

 _Yes. Yes, I do._

And she forked over the cash.

"Cute kid."

 _Why yes, I am adorable._

 _And married, mis-_

 _Oh._

 _You mean The Baby._

"Thanks."

"How old is he?"

She thought.

"About five months."

Congenial nod.

"What's his name?"

 _The Baby._

"James, uh, Jimmy. Jimmy."

Curious expression.

 _God, I do not get out of the house enough._

 _And Moms and Dad's house don't count._

"Mostly he just call him 'Shhh, The Baby is Sleeping'."

 _There. That's better._

Amused chuckle.

"Yeah. I get that. Whelp, have a good day."

She grinned, wanting to stay and talk.

To a person.

To a real person.

That wasn't a baby or her family.

 _I've really got to get out of the house more._

And then she went.

* * *

She just didn't go _home_.

Oh, she _meant_ to.

But on her way . . .

 _Mmm, oh yes, I believe I will, thanks._

. . . she saw it.

 _Strawberry? No._

And simply could not pass up.

 _Walnut? No. Mmm . . ._

Dixie Belle ice cream.

"What can I get for you?"

 _Everything._

"Chocolate chip mint."

 _Annnnddddd . . ._

"In a waffle cone."

 _'Cause you only live once._

"Comin' right up."

She sat there, in the car.

The Baby now asleep in his box because apparently a trip to the local record store was just too much of an adventure for an infant to take lying down.

 _That's okay, kid. I think I might take a nap when we get home too._

And Annabel Margret Walker Anderson ate her ice cream cone.

". . . on. I'll . . . be . . . gone . . ."

On a sunny Tuesday afternoon.

* * *

Ice cream still flavoring her satisfied tongue, Annabel sashayed across the yard, dozing tot in her arms, toward her very own Brandon, Florida-rented house.

 _You know, kid, your Daddy was right. This isn't that b-_

"Annabel!"

As the front door opened.

 _The hell?_

"Where have you been?!"

And her two-headed mothers . . .

"We've been worried sick!"

"Are you alright?!"

. . . lurched themselves out of it.

Ma-Da and Ma-Ba, nearly identical faces simultaneously distraught and livid, weren't exactly shouting.

Nobody could really shout with a sleeping baby around.

But they were close to it.

And Annabel . . .

"Of course I'm okay."

. . . found herself . . .

"Why?"

. . . completely befuddled.

"What do you mean 'why'?"

"Bring that baby in out of the heat!"

"Where have you been?!"

 _The_ hell _?_

They ushered her into the house.

Shutting the door firmly behind them.

And there Annabel was also faced with . . .

"Hey, there you are."

. . . Daddy and Patrick too.

"See, I told you they'd turn up."

One of which was talking, albeit in a relieved tone.

And the other of which . . .

"Nothin' to worry about."

. . . was mute of tongue.

"Just like I said."

And two of hands.

And Annabel goggled.

 _What the hell?!_

* * *

". . . and you just weren't here!"

"The car was _gone_!"

"There was no _note_!"

"And we just had no idea what had happened!"

And she was dumbfounded.

"Maybe I decided to go out?"

"But what about the baby?!"

She spoke slowly.

Because she needed this to sink in.

"And take him _with_ me?"

Even though she wasn't sure it did.

"Well, where did you _go_?!"

Annabel looked down pointedly at the bag next to her.

"The record store. On Burberry."

"For what?!"

"A record."

"That doesn't _look_ like a record!"

"It's a music cassette."

"For what?!"

"Listening to music."

And the line of interrogation intensified.

"Burberry is _five_ minutes away. We have been looking for you for at least _forty_ minutes!"

And the prisoner snapped.

"Well, that's _clearly_ because I meant Burberry, _Oklahoma_! God, I mean, I'm a grown woman! What the hell is wrong-"

And Daddy Jimmy, self-assigned referee for the Crazy Record/Cassette Implosion of 1984, threw a flag and called a timeout.

"Okay, just hang on, girls. Everybody just take a breath."

Going even so far as to step between the warring factions.

At great personal risk to himself.

"Look, Annabel. The girls came over to drop off, uh, something-"

"A surprise cherry chocolate _cheesecake_!"

" _And_ to ask if you wanted to watch Days of Our Lives-"

"Ok."

Soothing hook gesture.

"And they didn't know where you were-"

"Or our _grandson_ , thank you very much!"

"Yes. Anyway, so they called the store-"

"-even though it's not even _grocery_ day!"

Second soothing hook gesture.

"Right. Ahem. Patrick answered-"

"I can't believe you didn't even tell your own _husband_ , Annabel!"

"He was so _worried_!"

Soothing hook gesture number three.

"So we came home to make sure everything was okay."

"Because grown, responsible women do not simply just run away from their own houses-"

"- in the middle of a _weekday_!"

Fourth hook gesture, slightly more irritated than the first three.

"Okay, girls-"

And Annabel just stared.

 _Oh my god._

 _My parents are crazy people._

* * *

Bette and Dot Walker, on the verge of giving their dear _Darling_ husband a piece of their minds as well if he didn't stop waving his hooks around and interrupting their remonstration of their dear Darling daughter . . .

"Girls-"

. . . watched as she opened and shut her mouth . . .

 _Look at that, she can't even think straight!_

 _How is she supposed to be safe out there alone in the world with a baby?!_

. . . several times before finally forming words.

"I just went out with The Baby to the record store! We were gone less than an hour! Why are you acting so _crazy_?!"

 _How dare she?!_

 _Does she not know that it's not safe out there?!_

"Annabel, babies are too young to be just _trotted_ out into the world on a _whim_!"

"They need to be with their _mothers_!"

"He _was_ with me! We were perfectly _safe_! I only left him in the car to get ice cream."

 _She what?!_

"You what?!"

Caught and captured, they watched their dear Darling daughter grasp at straws.

"I was _five feet away_ at the takeout window! For _three_ minutes! The windows were down!"

 _Bugs!_

 _Dogs!_

 _Germs!_

"I mean, he's perfectly _fine_! I didn't do anything _wrong_! He was alseep by that time anyway!"

And then the former Lobster Boy stuck his two cents into the mix.

 _Uninvited_ , they might add.

"Okay, okay. Listen. Everybody's here. Everybody's fine. Let's just take a break, okay? Go home and cool our heads-"

 _My head is_ perfectly _fine, Sister._

 _As is mine, Dot._

"-we say things we don't mean, okay?"

 _Oh, I mean_ every _word!_

 _As do I!_

But Jimmy Darling was insistent.

And shooed them . . .

"-later, okay?"

 _Oh, we most certainly_ will _!_

 _You better_ believe _it, missy!_

. . . out the backdoor anyway.

And quite abruptly, Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .

 _Wait, where the hell's my baby?_

. . . found herself alone.

 _And my husband?_

* * *

Patrick had taken The Baby out of Annabel's arms upon her much anticipated arrival home.

Not _snatched_ exactly.

But he typically said hello to The Baby anytime he came home from the store.

And then frequently just didn't give him back.

So it was kind of . . .

"Hi."

. . . reflexive at this point.

Except he usually spoke to her when she greeted him.

This time he did not.

"Patrick?"

Even though at the time . . .

". . . gone!"

. . . she had been too preoccupied to pay . . .

". . . happened?!"

. . . much attention.

So . . .

 _Freaking nightmare._

. . . she went to go look for him.

* * *

She found him in their bedroom.

On their bed.

Laying on his side.

Gazing at his tiny infant son.

The Baby.

Sleeping still.

Even after all . . .

"Hi."

. . . that.

"Hi."

She circled the bed, coming 'round to the other side to see his face more clearly.

His face that was still latched onto the baby's face.

 _Hello?_

"Are you mad at me too?"

He didn't break his gaze away to her.

"No."

And that was it.

"Patrick?"

Nothing more.

"I just took him to the record store."

Not outwardly anyway.

"I know."

Not anything she could see.

"I wasn't gone an hour. I didn't even peruse."

Peruse. They had perused all the time in Colorado.

Hours, she remembered.

 _Good times._

But now . . .

"I know."

. . . apparently things had changed.

"Patrick?"

She didn't like it.

"Yeah?"

Not one . . .

"He's okay."

. . . little . . .

"We didn't leave you."

. . . bit.

"I know."

 _Well, shit._

* * *

They found Scruffy Sam the Sublime hiding in The Baby's room under the little used crib.

"Hey, pooch."

Hesitant tail wag.

Hysterical two headed women and waving man hooks enough to unnerve even the most stalwart of canine hearts.

"Wanna go for a walk?"

Whine.

And they went.

But Annabel made _damn_ sure . . .

"I'm taking Sam for a walk."

"Okay."

. . . to tell Patrick first.

* * *

 **Okay, so the title is the opening line to every Curious George book I've ever read and the fact that George always thinks what he's doing is fine until it all spins out of control.**

 **Ha.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, midnightrebellion86, and brigid1318 for previously reviewing!**


	78. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

* * *

The most predominate things anybody ever figured out about Annabel Maragret Walker was that she had hererchromiated eyes, loved music, had an opinion about almost everything, and . . .

 _Went to park. Home by 5._

 _Went to record store. Back around 3._

 _Going to Daddy's store. See you when we get back._

. . . had a sincerely defiant streak.

"The Baby and I going to Tampa tomorrow. Probably be gone all morning."

 _Tampa is so far._

 _And he's just so little._

And Dorothy Jean carefully wiped a speck of applesauce off her mouth before speaking.

"That's nice, dear."

Elizabeth Ann took a sip of tea.

"Sounds like a lovely adventure for you both."

Jimmy Darling next, around a mouthful of meatloaf.

"Patrick, you gonna take off and go with her?"

Patrick The Husband, casual smile and casual shrug before buttered roll.

"No. She's good on her own. Maybe this weekend though. If she's interested."

Triumphant Annabel.

"Oh yeah, sure. I can do the mall twice in a week. It's the _mall_."

And a content family there was.

* * *

She didn't take The Baby out _every_ day.

And if she took him out in the morning, she planned a relaxing afternoon.

Or vice versa.

She wasn't hysterically running here or there.

She just wasn't . . .

 _I'm not like you, Moms._

. . . staring at the four walls of their little house anymore.

 _And that's okay._

Besides, The Baby . . .

"Oh what a sweet little thing! What's his name?"

"Jimmy."

. . . seemed to be enjoying it just fine.

"Well, he is just the most darling little- oh, what's wrong with his fingers, dear?"

Mostly.

"They're fused."

"Oh."

"Is that a problem?"

". . . N-n-no."

"Good. Have a nice day then."

* * *

And it wasn't always spending money either.

"I love this park."

"Yes. The Baby loves the bucket swings."

In fact most of the time . . .

"So the Botanical Gardens are free?"

"Yes."

"Awesome."

. . . it was just about being _out_.

And away.

With . . .

"Look, Jimmy, see the pretty bird?"

"Bububub . . ."

. . . her little man.

* * *

 _She's always on the go._

 _With The Baby._

 _Doesn't she want to stay home and cook or sew some clothes for him?_

 _If she did, she would, I suppose._

 _We raised_ her _that way._

 _I guess it didn't take._

 _Do you think he gets enough sleep?_

 _He seems pretty content. Certainly has the most beautiful smile I've ever seen._

 _Oh, he does._

 _What should we cook for supper tonight?_

 _I would suggest hobo stew but I don't think Annabel would get the joke._

 _Well, if she did, she probably would not appreciate it._

 _I know it's her baby._

 _Yes._

 _And not ours._

 _No._

 _But don't you think she should-_

 _It's not up to us. She made that perfectly clear._

 _I know, I know._

 _And we've got to respect that._

 _Jimmy didn't help._

 _No._

 _He didn't even argue._

 _No._

 _He just nodded his head and said 'okay'._

 _Yes._

 _The nerve._

 _Yes. So what are we going to make for supper tonight?_

 _Chicken and dumplings._

 _Let's get on with it then._

* * *

Patrick had learned his place too.

"So you're heading out as soon as I leave?"

"Yeah. The bookstore opens early and I want to get him back for a nap."

"Okay. Want me to change him first?"

"No. I just did."

"Okay. I packed the diaper bag for you."

"I did that the other day."

"I just wanted to make sure there was enough powder."

"Oh, okay. Thanks."

"I think I'll take Sam to the store with me so he can keep your dad entertained."

"Cool. Want me to come by later and pick him up?"

"Sure."

"Okay. All ready, little man?"

"Mubmubmub . . ."

"Okay. Say 'I love you, Daddy.'"

"Sptttttt . . ."

"That's close enough. I love you two."

"We love you too."

"Be safe."

"We will."

"Did you tell your moms?"

"God, yes."

"Okay. 'Bye. Be safe."

"I will. 'Bye."

* * *

"Slow day."

"Yes."

"So, where's Annabel off to today?"

"Fort de Soto Park."

"Ah. What's that?"

"Some place she needed the stroller for."

"And you're okay with her going?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's Annabel."

"Yeah. And The Baby?"

"What about him?"

"Do you feel okay with her goin' around with him all the time?"

"Yeah. He seems happy. She's _definitely_ happier."

"Yeah, he does. I tell ya, Patrick, I'm really proud of you two. You've got a good little family going here."

"Thank you, s-, Jimmy. I'm happy."

"What about you, Sam? You like all this?"

"Whine."

"Yeah. Me too."

* * *

"Date night's coming up."

"Yep."

"You know what I was thinking?"

"What?"

"Bowie."

"You want to go out on a date with Bowie?"

"No, silly! I want to go see Bowie with you!"

"Where?"

"Orlando."

"Oh."

"What?"

"It's kind of far."

"It's an _hour_! Remember when we drove _two_ hours in the _snow_ to see Steve Miller?"

"Yeah."

"So . . ."

". . ."

"Come on. It'll be fun. I promise I won't throw my bra at him, just you."

"Well . . ."

"Come on, Patrick. Be fun with me. Please?"

"Okay."

"Yay!"

* * *

"Oh my god, that was so _great_!"

"Yeah, it was. I'm glad we wen-"

"When I get excited . . . my little china girl . . . you know, we should pull over."

"What? Why?"

"So you don't wreck the car when I do _this_."

"Oh. Uh, don't you want to wait until we get home?"

"Nope."

"Uh, you sure?"

"Yep."

"Uh, okay."

* * *

"So, uh, Bowie, huh?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, you and me just being out and alive like we used to."

"Yeah."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Have you seen my underwear?"

"Oh, uh . . ."

* * *

"Did you enjoy the concert?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah. It was good. Hi, Little Jimmy!"

"You know, we were wondering if you would like take us for a little drive tomorrow? What do you say?"

"Oh. Uh. Yeah. Sure. We'll take my car."

"We thought Patrick's car was bigger."

"Yeah, but, uh, we need to, uh, fumigate it first. I, uh, left an old, uh, cheeseburger in the backseat."

 _Why is she acting weird, Sister?_

 _I don't know, Bette._

"Alright, Annabel, whatever you say."

* * *

 **So, yeah, empowered little thing, isn't she?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, smclendon, and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing!**

 **And I do love that you all were so irritated on Annabel's behalf!**


	79. Chasing To Catch Up

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Chasing to Catch Up

* * *

The baby was crawling.

Crawling.

Just a baby, just a potato with a head, ' _wow, isn't it that cute_ ' but then he was sitting up and pushing himself up and, yes, it had taken weeks and weeks and _weeks_ for all that to happen but then _boom_! there he was, just, like, _doing_ it.

Like he didn't even know he was too damn young or something.

Just sittin' and rollin' and rockin'.

And then he had started scooting, _scooting_ , with one leg bent in and one leg stretched out like a dowsing rod.

Pointed right at Scruffy Sam the Sublime.

As if The Baby had been watching The Dog for months and months and _months_.

Plotting his approach, his plan.

Of attack.

Scruffy Sam, who had initially seemed be somewhat alarmed that the potato with a head was moving.

"Whine."

"I know, man. You got a fan."

But quickly caught up with the interplay as if it was the best time ever.

So the baby would scoot and Sam would scoot and together they would scoot all over their house.

Or Moms and Daddy's house. Or the backyard or wherever they happened to be at that time.

Scoot scoot scoot.

Inch by inch by inch, little by little by little.

Until Sam had to scoot more and more and faster and faster so that his cold, wet nose would not get taken by the no-more-potato baby too.

The Baby, That Baby.

Babbling and giggling and grinning and grunting and cooing all over the place.

"Guh!"

 _Oh my god. That baby. He's . . . he's amazing._

And he was.

And if Patrick had trouble going to work before . . .

"'Bye, Little Jimmy, I love you."

. . . it was only worse now . . .

"Budda, Bubba, bay-"

"Did he say 'bye?!'"

"Maybe."

"Awww . . ."

. . . for the doting daddy and his bouncing baby boy.

* * *

"Do you remember when I ran away from home?"

They were in the Florida sunshine, watching Little Jimmy play in the backyard grass.

The temperature was just at baking and they had been about to suggest a nice glass of iced tea in the slightly less humid kitchen.

And now, this.

 _Which time, Dear Darling Daughter? Miami or Colorado?_

 _No time for snark now, Sister._

 _As old as we are, Dot, now is always the time for snark._

"Yes."

Annabel wasn't looking at them, but seemed focused on her crawling son.

"Why, darling?"

Although her mind seemed far afield.

"You never gave me shit about it."

 _Language, darling._

 _No, not now._

"Well, of course not, Annabel. We were just grateful to have you home safe."

A brief pause.

"You never gave me shit about going away to Colorado either."

 _How many times is she going to say 'shit', Sister?_

 _Knowing Annabel, probably at least one more._

"No."

More consideration as the gurgling baby discovered a fluttering butterfly that fluttered itself around his wispy head more than once.

"And you didn't even give me shit-"

 _There it is._

 _Good. You've won the lottery of our daughter's potty mouth. Congratulations._

"-about coming back home unmarried and pregnant either."

They turned then, as one, always now one, to their only child.

"What are you getting at, Annabel?"

"And please don't say 'shit' again."

 _Dot-_

 _Oh hush, I have rights too._

"The baby will learn it."

A small, amused smile from their beautiful daughter who was now also a mother.

"Sorry. No, you guys have always been there for me. No matter what. No matter what I said or how I treated you. You've never given up on me. Never."

 _I almost did. Remember the time she asked us if cows ruled the world would they drink human milk?_

 _A mother's love can only stretch so far._

And then the Annabel in question cut into their shared musing with a sentence they had always known in their hearts but had never really entirely expected to hear aloud.

"I'm so grateful you guys are my mothers. I love you."

 _Oh my heart._

 _It hurts._

"Oh Annabel," they spoke together. "We love you."

And the women of the Walker/Anderson clan embraced with hugs and some tears and, of course, giggles.

Until that is, Little Jimmy reached too high for the teasing butterfly.

And tumbled over backward.

Erupting into surprised and outraged cries of distress.

Until, of course, his mother and grandmothers loved him back to full and robust health.

* * *

 _Why did we come into this room, Sister?_

 _To make some tea, Bette._

 _Oh. Of course._

 _Are you alright?_

 _Yes. Of course._

 _That's two of courses so far._

 _Oh hush._

 _And you forgot we were supposed to babysit Little Jimmy yesterday._

 _Everyone forgets somethings sometimes._

 _And you forgot about Patty's baby shower last month._

 _Well, Patty needs to stop having so many kids. Now will you stop making such a fuss?_

* * *

Jimmy Darling Walker was and, for the most part, had always been, a happy-go-lucky kinda guy.

Oh, he'd had some dark times here and there.

But he'd always come out of them eventually.

". . . by with a little help from my friends . . ."

 _Now that's a sweet tune right there-_

With a little help.

Well . . .

"Darling!"

"Darling!"

"Girls!"

. . . alot of help, really.

And now, with so much life lived . . .

"Hey, little girl, what're you doin'?"

"Drawing a picture for Ma-Da and Ma-Ba."

"Is that a . . . dolphin on top of our house?"

"Yeah, it's what the Tooth Fairy rides to our house on Easter."

"Oh. Uh, well . . ."

. . . it only seemed to be getting . . .

"Girls! Girls! Come look at this!"

. . . better.

"What? What is i-"

"Oh my lord!"

* * *

The Baby, aka Little Man, wanted to stand up.

Practiced really hard.

And his favorite thing to practice pulling up on?

Granddaddy Jimmy's shiny . . .

"Are you getting this?"

. . . smooth . . .

"Yes, darling!"

. . metal . . .

"Does the red light mean it's working?"

. . . hooks.

"I think so."

 _Awww . . ._

"Come on, Little Man, you can do it!"

"Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-gah!"

 _. . . would ya get a loada this?_

* * *

 _Goodness, Dot? Are you alright?_

 _Y-y-yes, just . . . give me a minute._

 _What is it?_

 _Nothing. I just . . . I just . . . lost my breath for a moment._

 _Perhaps we should make some honey and lemon for that cough._

 _Alright._

* * *

"Oh. My. God. Break the mirror."

"What?"

Annabel stared at her clueless husband.

"The mirror!"

Her handsome husband with his warm hazel eyes.

Her husband who _hadn't_ just given birth to a watermelon with fused fingers less than a year ago.

The one who was currently baffled.

"Why would I break the mirror?"

How could he not _see_ it?

Was he _blind_?

"Patrick, seriously! _Look_ at me!"

He didn't seem to have a problem with that request.

"You're beautiful. You look great."

 _Great. Whatever._

Mis-matched undergarments on full display.

Along with her floppy belly and fat ass.

"I'm a freakin' marshmallow, man!"

Eight months it had been.

And despite all her dieting . . .

"Cottage cheese, ugh-"

. . . in the world . . .

"Want some French fries?"

"Hell no. This last five pounds just won't budge."

. . . she still had a jelly belly.

"You look great to me."

Thunder thighs.

" _You_ enjoy though."

And a fat, jiggly . . .

"Are you being sarcastic?"

. . . backside.

"A little."

* * *

Walking was boring.

Running was worse.

But there was this new thing.

"Do I have to wear the g-string?"

"No. But it'll make your ass look _great_."

Jazzercise.

"Okay."

Full of Lycra.

Polyester.

Neon.

And . . .

"Wait, why?"

"It's a fashion statement."

Braided headbands.

"With all this crap strapped to me, how am I supposed to exercise?"

"Heroin."

"What?"

"Coke?"

"What?"

"What's your thing?"

"Uh . . . _not_ snorting shit up my nose?"

"Fine. Suit yourself."

"I will, thanks."

* * *

Still, she tried it.

". . . six, seven, eight-"

The Jazzercise.

"Yeah-"

Not the drugs.

"Work it-"

And found it . . .

"Come on, harder-"

. . . a mixed bag . . .

"Come on, feel it-"

. . . of emotions.

"Burn it-"

 _I'm trying, man-_

"And down! And down!"

 _This_ music _is on drugs-_

"Come on, further-"

 _That guy needs to tuck his junk back into those shorts_ -

"And hit the floor-"

 _Or I need to get Patrick a pair of those shorts-_

"Press it! Press it!"

 _I bet he wouldn't - wait you want me to do what?_

 _In public?_

 _Wearing this?_

 _I'm going home._

* * *

"How was Jazzer- wow."

"What?"

"Is that - what you wore?"

"Yeah? So?"

"Uhhh . . ."

"You like it?"

" _Yeah_."

* * *

"So how was Jazzercise, Annabel?"

"It was okay. Weird. I don't think I'll go back. I was too self conscious."

"Oh."

"We'd hoped you'd find something to enjoy."

Annabel shrug.

"I'm keepin' the clothes though."

Another bite of cheesecake.

"They look good off me. Can I have some more cheesecake?"

"Of course, darling."

. . .

 _Wait, what did she say?_

* * *

 **Hello again!**

 **Winter break for me here and I'm really hoping to make some good progress on this story. I have so much tell you!**

 **I mean, the Walker/Andersons have so much to tell you!**

 **Ahem.**

 **Anyway, going to post daily from now until Tuesday. Then I may take a break depending on how much painkillers I'm on after my surgery.**

 **But hopefully that won't last too long.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and Dinahray for reviewing before.**

 **See you tomorrow! :D**


	80. God of the Sea

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

God of the Sea

* * *

"Son of Neptune. God of the Sea."

He whispered it in The Boy's ear sometimes when the child was sitting on his lap.

Laughing and babbling away.

Playing with his hooks.

Or adding new gnaw marks to the faint wooden Annabel ones from so long ago.

"Don't worry, these pincers won't hold you back. I bet one day, I'll even watch you juggle."

Up there on the stage.

People ooohing, ahhhing, clapping.

At his boy, his grandson.

The Lobster Boy.

But he didn't really believe in that daydream.

Flights of fearful fancies, the freaks would've called them.

A long time ago.

When they would have celebrated Little Jimmy and his lobster claws.

"Look at that, mate," Paul would've crowed. "Spittin' image, innit?"

And Jimmy Darling would've puffed out his carny chest with pride.

"Gonna grow up to be handsome just like his granddaddy," he could almost hear Evie cooing.

Yes, yes.

But better.

So much better.

Safer.

Not angry.

Not alone.

Not lost.

Jimmy would've seen to it.

A boy surrounded by the love and support and pride of his family.

His freak show family.

And then Jimmy's dimpled grin would fade.

The taunts. The jeers.

The secret sneakings out the backdoors.

No, no.

Better than that for his family.

Better than that for his _grandson_.

Even if they had attained his pie-in-the-sky dream.

A tract of land on the cheap.

Working the land, being left alone.

No deaths, no murders.

No cut-off, mangled-forever hands.

Still.

It was a new world now, a new life.

1984.

He couldn't believe it.

Color TVs.

Computers.

Something he had heard about called a mobile phone.

And there was Annabel, thriving in the middle of it.

Had herself a good man.

A stabilizing man.

A patient man.

One who loved her and loved and accepted all of them.

Small miracles.

 _Maybe not so small._

And Jimmy was pretty sure . . .

"Whatever you are, whatever happens, I'll be proud of you, Little Man."

. . . she was going to do her best for him.

Little Jimmy. Her son.

And he just bet that included . . .

"Always."

. . . giving him the normal, average hands Jimmy himself . . .

"You remember that."

. . . had so long ago . . .

"Aba bababa . . .

. . . dreamed of.

"Yep. You got it, Little Man."

Son of Neptune. God of the Sea.

* * *

The holidays were kind of a blur.

Halloween.

"Trick or treat!"

"Oh, hello, Annab- oh, what a _precious_ little baby ghostie! And . . . what are you?"

"I'm a coat rack! Care for a jacket?"

 _Oh my god, Daddy, you're so weird._

Thanksgiving.

"What are you thankful for, Annabel?"

"Not being a pregnant whale anymore. Ma-Da?"

"Oh. Uh, well . . ."

Even Christmas . . .

"Okay, tell Santa what you want for Christm-"

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa-"

"Never mind. Sorry."

. . . seemed like a big, jolly, blur.

Mostly because . . .

"How do you feel about it, Patrick?"

"I don't know. I don't want him to be in pain but if it will improve his quality of life . . ."

"Yeah-"

". . . and needs to be done now-"

"Yeah-"

". . . then I guess I'm for it."

"Okay. It's settled then."

. . . there were big changes in life . . .

"When are we going to Tampa?"

"Thursday."

"Okay."

"And don't tell my dad. Make something up. I'm going tell him after we get back."

"Oh. Uh, okay."

. . . on their way.

* * *

"Uh, si-, Jimmy?"

"Hey, Patrick. What's up?"

"I'd like off Thursday afternoon, if that's okay. Annabel and The Baby and I need to go to Tampa."

"Huh? Oh yeah, sure. Christmas shoppin'?"

"Mmm."

* * *

"I didn't like lying to your dad."

"I know. But it was for a good reason."

"Yeah, I guess. Think he'll be mad at me?"

"My dad? I doubt it. He loves you."

"Oh. Really?"

* * *

Ronald Reagan, the _actor_ , was sweeping his presidential re-election in a landslide that was almost obscene in its near totality.

Cesar Chavez was inspiring the Hispanic farm-working masses to stand up for themselves.

And Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .

"Daddy . . ."

. . . was having The Talk with her father.

"Um . . ."

No, not _that_ Talk.

It was a little more than a little too late for _that_ Talk.

She took a deep breath.

"I'm going to get The Baby's syndactyly fixed. His hands anyway. There's a . . . hospital . . . in Tampa. We've already spoken with them . . ."

And her matter of fact voice failed her.

 _Daddy?_

Granddaddy Jimmy remained fixed for a moment.

Then he cleared his throat.

Glanced briefly at his own silver-hooked appendages.

Then back up at her with a bittersweet expression on his face.

"Yeah, I thought you might."

Her heart shattered.

 _I am just, like, the world's worst, most unappreciative, most unsentimental, worst daughter in the whole world._

But she was also a mother.

A mother who had been raised a functioning freak.

Who did not want her child to continue on that old family legacy.

Well, _that_ old family legacy.

Or most of the old ones, really.

So she steeled herself and spoke again.

"I don't want to insult you, Daddy. I'm not trying to take away your connection to him, I just-"

Jimmy Darling Walker, shook his head, raising a hook to stop her flow of words.

"Annabel, don't you think I would have given up my lobster claws in a _second_ for normal hands so many times? Annabel, I _dreamed_ about having normal hands."

He snorted self-depreciatvely.

"I mean, I would have loved you no matter what you came out with but, Annabel, you can't imagine how scared I was that you'd be like me. I was so relieved that you had all your fingers and toes so normal and easy. That you only had different eyes."

Completely steamrolling directly over the unintended insult-

 _You're joking if you say I didn't have a hard time with these eyes, Daddy._

\- and the feelings directly attached, Annabel focused on what her well-meaning father was saying.

". . . understand. I doesn't mean you don't love me. It means you want to take care of _him_."

She nodded, relieved that he wasn't too hurt.

"Patrick's coming with me to the pre-surgery doctor's appointment but I wondered since, you know . . . if you wanted to come too?"

And Annabel's Daddy grinned those Daddy dimples at her.

"Yeah, sure. I'd love to."

And she thought maybe she'd done okay.

* * *

"Jimmy, darling, are you alright?"

They must've noticed him, staring off into space.

Thinking deep and selfish thoughts.

Thoughts he wouldn't say.

Because he knew he was being selfish.

Self-serving.

And because he knew it was the right thing to do.

For the good of . . .

 _De-freaking the whole world._

 _Gingerbread men on a cookie cutter tray._

. . . the child.

Or maybe they had just slipped something into his eggnog.

Jimmy Darling Walker pulled his gaze away from the pale, listless world beyond his Brandon, Florida window.

And looked at his darlings.

Two heads, one body.

They never fit anywhere.

Except with each other.

Now.

And him.

Always.

Their faces were lined, hair greying together.

Much like his own worn visage, he was always shocked to find any time he caught a glimpse of himself in any reflective . . .

 _Whoa, the hell? That's not what I'm supposed to look like-_

. . . surface.

The world was moving on, moving faster.

Brighter and louder and . . . cleaner and all the same-r.

Something he had once hungered for.

All those things.

But now, they seemed to fill him with vaguely-disdainful resentment.

 _Just like everybody else._

And then he forced what he hoped was a decent smile.

"Yeah. Sure. Why?"

Dot and Bette, his compassionate companions, could always see right through him.

"Annabel. Little Jimmy. His hands."

He clenched his jaw reflexively. Relaxed it.

And Dot spoke again. Followed by Bette.

"You don't have to lie to us, Jimmy."

"We'll see right through it anyway."

He shook his head, shoring himself up.

"I'm not lying. I'm . . . choosing what I'm going to say. Choosing my . . ."

 _What's that new flash word?_

". . . perspective."

Their nearly identical smiles . . .

 _But I can tell them apart._

 _I always have._

 _They're so special. The two of them._

 _Soon nobody will be special anymore._

. . . beautiful to him now and always.

"That's all good and fine, Jimmy."

"We respect that."

"But we also know you're not a robot."

"And you have feelings."

"And that's okay too."

 _I love you girls._

 _And I love my grandson._

 _And my daughter._

 _And the boy she brought home._

"I know," he replied quietly. "And my feelings will be okay too."

 _So I'm going to support her._

 _And them._

 _And the world, they'll never know._

 _About his beautiful, special hands._

 _That we had that together, me and my grandson._

 _Only I'll know. Really, really know._

 _And Bette. And Dot._

 _And one day we'll be dead._

 _And then it will all be gone anyway._

"I promise."

* * *

 _He's hurting, Sister._

 _Yes._

 _That's been a connection to his father._

 _Yes._

 _He's been righting wrongs._

 _Yes._

 _And now it'll be taken away from him. That connection._

 _Yes._

 _It's good for Little Jimmy._

 _Yes._

 _Easier to him to grow out in the world._

 _Yes._

 _Easier for his heart and mind._

 _Yes._

 _Doesn't mean it will be easy on our Jimmy._

 _No._

 _Even though it's right._

 _I know._

 _I don't know if he's going to let us in on this one._

 _All we can do is be there if he does._

 _Yes._

 _We can't be mad at Annabel and Patrick._

 _No. It's a good decision._

 _And our Jimmy knows that._

 _Yes._

 _I just wish it didn't have to hurt him so much._

 _Me too, Sister. Me too._

"We love you, Jimmy."

"I love you two."

* * *

 **So, yeah, conflicted. No big surprise there, I'm sure.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for coming back to this story.**

 **Good grief, how many times have I said that in times past? Seriously, thank you guys.**

 **And all you gentle readers. :)**


	81. De-Lobstering

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

De-Lobstering

* * *

". . . fairly straightforward," the doctor was saying. "The patient's digits are fused by skin and muscle but the bones themselves are independent."

Jimmy tried to wiggle his lobster claws.

"Now, as the fingers grow in their currently fused state, this will cause them, especially the ring finger, to be pulled down with the shorter digits . . ."

They weren't there.

". . . possibly causing pain and loss of range of motion."

They hadn't been.

"The surgery we are preparing for him is designed to remedy this."

Not for over thirty years.

Under anesthesia, the patient's fused digits will be separated."

Longer than he'd had them.

"Any necessary nail-bed reconstructions or similar will be made and skin grafts from his arm placed over the separations."

Which seemed bizzare.

"The digits will be dressed with gauze between them so that the dermis will not re-fuse. Both arms will be cast above the elbow, bent, to allow the grafts time to take and to guard against infection."

And unreal.

"The incisions will be inspected after ten days and recast for another week after that."

But no more bizarre and unreal . . .

"Once the casts are off permanently, daily wound care and moisturization of the digits will be required. And the patient of course will be encouraged to move and bend and flex the digits to improve range of motion."

. . . than what the doctor was telling him now.

"The entire process should take about four to six weeks."

Jimmy, stunned, stared at him.

"That's all it takes?"

The doctor nodded, seeming to focus intently not on Jimmy's hooks.

"Yes, barring infection."

And Jimmy still couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

"Is that . . . new? The . . . technique?"

 _Ma? Did you know about this?_

"No, but updated sanitation safeguards against infection have been effectively improved to shorten and improve recovery time."

Jimmy, grasping for words.

"Wow."

He stared at the place his phantom lobster claws had once been.

 _Is that really all it would have taken to make me . . . normal?_

 _What could I have done if I was normal?_

A slow burning fire began to smolder in his chest.

Before one single thought dampened it toward eventual extinguish.

 _Not have Annabel._

 _Oh._

And then the girl herself interrupted his musings.

"Daddy?"

Sounding anxious.

"You okay?"

And he cleared, refocused on the thing that was important here.

"Yeah, Annabel."

Not him.

"I'm just fine."

And that was it.

* * *

 _But it wasn't that easy, how could she have ever thought it might be, how could she have allowed herself to be so easily fooled?_

Oh dear god!

What have they done . . .

 _"- to my baby?!"l_

This isn't right! This isn't what they were supposed to do-

 _"- Anderson, you wanted to get rid of his deformed hands-"_

 _"Yes! By fixing them!_ Fixing _them! Not-"_

Oh dear god, my baby-

 _Patrick was there, of course._

 _With his ductape and superglue._

 _"Be still, little boy, be still-"_

 _And precious little James Oliver Anderson giggling and cooing and wiggling away from Daddy-_

" _No, wait, hang on, come back here-"_

 _-who was just trying to glue his hands back on._

 _"Jimmy, wait-"_

 _"Somebody call my name?"_

 _And Daddy-_

Oh dear god what is he holding?!

 _-swooping in to rescue the day-_

 _"Don't worry, Little Man, we gotcha all fixed up. Look what I broughtcha!"_

No, Daddy, no, oh god-

 _Two little toddler-sized wooden lobster-claw hands._

 _"Now you can be just like me!"_

No no no no no-

 _Ma-Da and Ma-Ba appearing out of nowhere, big pot sloshing with them._

 _"Who's hungry? We made Lobster-Hand Soup!"_

And then Annabel jerked up out of her hellish, pre-surgery nightmare.

Nearly falling out of the bed in the process.

Patrick rolling over, reaching out for an Annabel that shaking herself to bits.

"Annabel? What's wrong?"

"Patrick, get the baby, check his hands-"

"What? Why?"

But he was already up, already leaving her.

Alone in the dark, alone with her nightmare.

 _Oh god oh god oh god-_

Only to return with a semiconscious toddler with two, count them two, lobster-claw hands.

The Baby himself sinking back into comfortable sleep as his mother cradled him to her, kissing his face, his hair.

Kissing and stroking his precious fused fingers, sniffing back her tears.

Slowly calming, recovering.

As her bewildered husband soothed her hair and stroked her face.

"Bad dream?"

 _Oh god-_

"Yeah."

Patrick Pause.

"Better?"

 _Oh god, well-_

"Yeah. I think. Getting there."

Another pauseful consideration.

"Okay. I love you."

 _Yeah-_

"I love you too."

* * *

It actually really was that easy.

Relatively, anyway.

The surgery went just fine.

His mother and father and grandparents received the news from their hard plastic waiting room chairs.

"-textbook surgery-"

And used the pay phone in the corner to call the Clarks to spread the good word.

"Wonderful! We'll get on the horn to everyone."

"Call Lucy first, would you please? She was so taken with him at Thanksgiving."

"It would be my pleasure. Give him a little kiss for me now."

"You got it."

* * *

The boy came home all drugged up.

De-fused hands wrapped up in gauze and casts.

And later, when the majority of the drugs wore off, a very confused and scared little boy.

"Ouch!"

Hands up. Face pulled into a frown.

"I know, boy. I know it hurts."

 _No, I don't. I've never had a scapel dug into my hands and sliced apart._

"I'm sorry. But it's for your own good."

Waving casted hands. Tearful eyes.

"Ouch!"

"I know."

And then she held him.

Alot.

And so did his father.

And his grandfather.

And his grandmothers.

Nothing else much got done over the next seven days.

Most of the family's focus was lasered in on the boy.

He was held.

"Let's snuggle and watch Mr. Rogers Neighborhood."

"Ba!"

He was fed.

"Who wants animal crackers?"

"Ba!"

He was cleaned.

"This is a sponge bath. See how it tickles under your arms?"

"Hee hee. Ba!"

And in general, catered to in every way possible.

Who wants ice cream?"

"Ba!"

He deserved it too.

His sliced and diced and stitched fingers must have hurt.

"Ouch!"

Must have ached.

"Ouch!"

Must have pulled.

"Ouch!"

And sometimes, they would later find out, they bled.

"Guh, guh!"

It was one of the longest weeks in recorded human history.

"Ma, Ma! Ouch!"

* * *

But children learn to accept . . .

"Would you like to read Curious George?"

"Yehs."

. . . more quickly than they have any right to.

"Would you like some more milk?"

"Yehs."

So much so, Annabel grew to think there might ought to be a law against it.

"Would you like to watch the birds outside?"

"Yehs."

The boy lay against whoever was holding him, all the time, it seemed.

Still and quiet, casted hands still and propped.

He did not play.

He did not cry.

He did not yell.

He still simply lay.

As though this now was his life.

And for several days, it was.

* * *

Halfway through the second week, things changed again.

 _Whack!_

Because the boy . . .

 _Whack!_

. . . seemed to be . . .

 _Whack!_

. . . adjusting . . .

 _Whack!_

. . . to what he thought . . .

 _Whack!_

. . . were his new . . .

 _Whack!_

. . . permanent . . .

 _Whack!_

. . . hands.

 _Whack!_

"Would you stop that? You're going to break off the casts."

 _Whack!_

"You're going to have to go back to the doctor."

 _Whack!_

You're going to hurt your hands."

 _Whackwhackwhackwhack!_

"Ouch."

"See? I told you."

* * *

And finally, finally, _finally_ , it was time for the casts to come off.

They went to the doctor . . .

"It's okay, it's okay, Mommy's right here."

"Ma, ma, ouch, mm mm . . ."

"I know, baby, I know.

. . . and carefully . . .

"Ma, ma, mm mm . . ."

. . . unwrapped his new . . .

"Ma, ma, mm . . ."

. . . hands.

"There you go, son. Good as new."

And the boy . . .

"Wow."

. . . learned . . .

"Those are your new hands, Jimmy."

. . . a new word.

"Wow."

As he stared at his scarred, pudgy, five fingered hands.

"Wow."

As if he had never seen them before.

"Wow."

And he hadn't.

"Wow."

"I know, right?"

"Wow."

* * *

He played with them a lot those first few days.

Poking one finger in between the others.

Seeming amazing at the space between the digits now.

"The zigzag scar pattern will fade with time."

"Okay."

"And since they are strategically placed between his fingers, they should not be reaily noticeable to the undiscerning eye."

"Okay."

"He needs to play with them as much as possible to avoid stiffness and loss of range of motion."

"Ha, I don't think that'll be a problem."

"I tend to agree with you."

"And we'll need to make a followup appointment in a few weeks to check-up on his healing."

"Okay. Thank you, Doctor."

* * *

Little Jimmy, still very taken with his new hands . . .

"Wow."

. . . showed them to his grandmamas and granddaddy.

"Ba!"

All the time.

"I see, Darling."

"They're wonderful!"

"Hey, check out those hands, Champ!"

He got lotion rubbed on them frequently to keep the skin grafts supple and flexible as possible, to reduce pulling and tightening and pain.

They even made a game of it.

"Tickle, tickle, tickle . . ."

They went to follow-up appointments.

"Exceptional healing."

And were eventually releasing with gold stars of recovery.

"Ma-Ma, ba!"

"I know, baby. Good job."

"Ba!"

And after several months . . .

"Ba!"

"Yep, ten little fingers, Little Man. Pretty impressive, huh?"

. . . they didn't think of it much at all.

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318 for reviewing and positive waves to her with her own frustrations there. I appreciate you very much. :)**


	82. Moving On

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Moving On

* * *

So Little Jimmy Anderson grew big and strong in the love of his doting, special, little family.

He learned to walk.

"Me walk. Me walk Ma-Da hou."

"Okay. Wait, what?"

"Bye, Da."

He learned to talk.

"Ma-Ba, more munins!"

"You want more muffins?"

"Yehs!"

He learned to run.

"Whhhhaaaaaa!"

"What happened, darling?"

"Whhhhaaaaaa!"

He learned to open and close doors.

"Ma-Ba! Ma-da! Granddaddy _hans_ off!"

"Jimmy? What's wrong? What happened?"

"He opened the bedroom door while I was switching out my hooks."

He learned to be gentle and kind.

"Granddaddy hans hur?"

"No, not anymore, Little Man. Well, not much anyway."

And he, in general . . .

"No. No peas pease."

"You have to eat them, they're good for you."

"Yuck."

. . . learned about life.

Celebrities sang about being the world.

Whitney Houston became a household name.

Wrestlemania debuted at Madison Square Garden for the blood-thirsty masses.

New Coke was universally rejected.

Route 66 was decommissioned.

Back to the Future diverted moviegoers' attention from the continued bombings and hostage crises and murders and tornado and other disasters that just never seemed to stop.

And Ryan White was expelled from school for having AIDS and still wanting to learn.

"Oh my _god_ , what is _wrong_ with people?!"

"What? What are you talking about, Bette?"

"They're _bullying_ that poor boy! We saw it on the news!"

"He's got AIDS," Dot picked up. "From a dirty blood transfusion. And they're kicking him out of school and treating him like garbage!"

"That just makes me so _mad_! He's a _child_!"

"They should be _helping_ him, not _hurting_ him! Why I've got half a mind to-"

And so it went.

* * *

The problem was, it wasn't going that well at Clark's Grocery.

Bigger chains like Sunflower and PiggyWiggly had big money behind them.

To afford bigger stores and newer products.

And undercut the prices of less wealthy, family-owned standalones.

And were and had been, slowly but surely, running Jimmy out of business for sometime.

He even heard on the grapevine about something called 'superstores' in which customers could buy underwear and eggs in the same stores.

 _Well hell, Mr. Clark, what am I supposed to do about that?_

It wasn't the concern of him growing older.

Patrick, the most sincere, most loyal son-in-law ever known to man . . .

"Dropped off the deposit at the bank."

"Thanks, son."

"We didn't quite break even again."

""Yeah, I know. Customers just aren't coming in like they used to."

. . . would take over the business in a heartbeat if Jimmy wanted to retire.

Was practically running the store himself anyway.

The problem was . . .

"There's a new E.W. James opening up on Fern next week."

"Yeah. I heard about that."

. . . the end of the road was in sight.

"Going to stay open till ten, they say."

"Now who the hell needs a can of beans at ten at night?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

And no matter who was driving the car, they would eventually get to the end of it.

"Bette? Dot? I think we need to talk."

* * *

"We support you, darling."

"And we know this has been a long time coming."

"We're gonna be set up alright as far as money, I reckon."

"But what about _you_ , darling?"

His smile was the dimpled one they'd loved for so very long.

"All that matters is my family. That's all. That's everything."

* * *

". . . bank loan?"

Yes, that was an option.

But-

"Honestly, Tom, I wouldn't know how to go about it. And I'd hate to trap my family into owin' up at this time of life."

The son of Dan Clark nodded his head thoughtfully.

"Well, you know, maybe you and I could work something out then."

Jimmy had expected as much.

And as well-meaning as the offer was-

"I appreciate that, Tom. I do. But, uh, I think it'd just delayin' the inevitable. Be all for nothin' but more heartache and debt in the end."

Sage shake of the salt and pepper head.

"Yeah. I think you're right, Jimmy. But I want you to feel clean about it. It may have been my dad's store but it was your baby. It really was. I want you to feel right about it."

. . . it wasn't what his heart and mind were telling him to do.

"I do, Tom. Thanks."

"You change your mind, you let me know."

"I will."

* * *

And then he called in his daughter and his son-in-law.

"I think it maybe time to sell Clark's."

Patrick looked offended.

"But . . . but . . . we can't. It our business, it's _your_ business. The family business. That would be failing you."

Jimmy Darling Walker shook his head.

"The only thing that would be failing me is not taking care of this family."

The younger man didn't respond, only sat, wilted, forlorn, looking crushed beyond belief.

"Look, Patrick, you did everything right. Every single bit of the way. You gave it your all. We both did.

Jimmy blew out a breath of resigned air.

"Truth is, it all comes down to money and resources. And these big chains have more of both than we could ever hope to have."

No response.

"It's been coming down for a long time, since before you joined our family. I've been doing my best and I know you have too. It's just the way the world is."

Jimmy pause, considering his wood-topped stumps.

"And when the world moves on, you gotta move on with it or get left behind."

Shake of the head.

"It's the right thing to do for this family, Patrick. And family is all that matters in the end."

The World's Best Son-In-Law did not seem pleased.

"If you say so, sir."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

"And I do."

* * *

"I'm sure gonna miss this place, Jimmy."

"I am too, Mrs. Engle."

"I've been shopping here for fifty years."

"I know, Mrs. Engle."

"I remember when you were just a nervous little stockboy."

"Yeah, me too."

"Dan Clark was sure proud of you."

Finally a statement that couldn't be shrugged of Jimmy's determinately casual shoulders.

A statement that ducked his aging head.

"Jimmy, look at me now."

Herculean effort.

"He'd still be proud of you. The way you've treated your customers, held your head up high. The way you've cared for that family of yours."

Tightening of the throat.

"You're a good man, Jimmy. And anyone with any sense knows it."

Welling of the eyes.

"Thanks, Mrs. Engle."

Aching of the chest.

"You relax now and enjoy retirement. Get some time with that grandboy."

Watery smile.

"I will. Thank you."

Nose threatening to drip.

"Goodbye, Jimmy. I'll see you around town."

And Jimmy with his hooks.

"I look forward to it, Mrs. Engle."

* * *

It went quietly.

That last day at Clark's.

When he closed up, he sent the stockboy and Patrick . . .

"Tell the girls I'll be a bit, wouldja?"

"Okay. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, Patrick. I will be. Thanks."

Then he locked it up.

Turned off the lights.

And wandered his store.

 _This is where I knocked over a can of green beans on my first day._

Aisle by aisle.

 _Had to fire Herman for stealing baked beans here. Then Bette and Dot made me send him a case at home to make sure he didn't go hungry while he job-searched._

The deli.

 _That boy wheezing on the floor after he'd tried to jack the slicer. Damn foolish kid._

The bench of Shame and Resurrection.

 _How many vets came through here? How many sandwiches?_

The stockroom.

 _The day Billy kept sneezing himself silly after breaking that glass of cinnamon._

The cash register.

 _I was shot right here. He looked into my eyes and I looked right into his. And then he shot me._

Everywhere.

Everything.

All the history there.

Right in the middle of the boxed potatoes and creamed corn.

 _I guess . . . I guess . . ._

 _I guess it's over._

Jimmy Darling Walker stood a minute longer, still and quiet in the dust motes and old wood flooring.

And then, because there was nothing left for him to do at that moment, Jimmy Darling Walker let himself out.

And walked home.

* * *

"Darling? Are you alright?"

The unrelenting heat of the Florida climate that August evening in 1985 was heavy and thick.

And still their heavy-hearted husband remained without.

 _First Little Jimmy's hands. Now this._

 _It's been a lot for him._

 _It's been a lot for all of us, I think._

 _Yes._

"Jimmy?"

They could barely hear his response.

"Have you seen the stars tonight?"

 _What?_

"They're so bright."

And they supposed . . .

"Yes, they are."

. . . he was on his way . . .

"Really something, huh?"

. . . to being alright.

"Yes, it sure is, darling."

* * *

So Jimmy was okay.

And Bette and Dot were okay.

And Annabel and Patrick and The Baby and Scruffy Sam the Sublime were okay.

"Do you think your dad is mad at me for the store closing? I felt like I should have done more."

"Did he _act_ like he was mad at you?"

"No. He said it was okay."

"Then it's okay. Daddy doesn't screw around and pretend."

"Well, okay. If you're sure."

"I am, baby."

"Okay."

At least for the most part.

* * *

 **Unfortunately, this is all pretty realistic for the time.**

 **And I know Jimmy, like me, can still close his eyes and still smell that old store smell. Even if he is fictional. ;)**

 **Thanks to midnightrebellion86 and brigid1318 for reviewing before.**

 **See you all again tomorrow for another chapter before my surgery.**

 **After that, it might be a few days; I'm not too sure what I write like on painkillers, ha.**


	83. The Grindstone and The Duke

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Grindstone and The Duke

* * *

The problem was, nobody was hiring.

Small towns like Brandon didn't have extra money . . .

". . . part-time but that's about all I can do for you. I'm sure sorry. I like Jimmy and all but times is tough."

. . . to go around.

Annabel was in on it too.

"Maybe I could get a job."

And Patrick was offended.

Again.

"But I'm your husband. _I'm_ supposed to provide for _you_."

She rolled her heterchromiated eyes at him.

"We're supposed to provide for _each other_ , Patrick. I'm not some trophy wife that sits around the house in diamond earrings and tiara waiting to be catered to."

"I know."

"Unless I'm naked."

"What?"

* * *

Brandon didn't have a radio station.

Neither did Valrico. Or Dover.

Or Riverview.

Tampa did.

". . . Sorry."

But they weren't hiring.

Sarasota did.

". . . hour away!"

But it was a little far.

And . . .

". . . experience."

. . . didn't seem very impressed with her resume.

". . . some college do-wap."

 _Who the hell even says that anymore?_

But they gave her a shot . . .

". . . four nights a week."

"That's not even worth the gas money."

. . . anyways.

"Yeah. But it's a foot in the door. And that's something."

While Patrick worked days . . .

". . . mufflers?"

"No, but I can learn."

. . . at the local Brandon auto shop.

* * *

After that . . .

". . . favorites all night for your listening pleasure . . ."

. . . Annabel kind of lost track of her life.

She went to work until the early hours of the morning.

". . . for you all night, Night Shift People . . ."

Came home and spent time with her son.

"Ma, Ma, look, Ma -"

Dropped him off with her mothers and newly retired daddy in the mid afternoon . . .

"Whaddya think about moving that flower bed over near the side of the house?"

"Jimmy, leave our flower beds alone please!"

"Well, that's the first time you've ever said _that_ in thirty years."

"Jimmy!"

. . . and slept until almost time to hop on the road.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"What's up?"

"Almost got a Chrysler dropped on my foot at work today."

"Oh god! Are you okay?!"

"Yeah. Good boots."

Spent a few scant minutes with her grease-and-oil husband.

"Little Jimmy hasn't pooped today."

"Okay."

"Neither has Scruffy Sam."

"Okay."

And powered down the road to Sarasota.

* * *

So there she was.

". . . listening pleasure, it's Ana Darling . . ."

Once more.

". . . Night Shift."

And it wasn't that she didn't _like_ it.

The radio.

". . . Commodores?"

It was familiar.

"You got it, man."

It was relatively comfortable.

"Comin' in ten."

It was just that her life had so significantly _changed_ since the last time she had spun tunes in the midnight hours.

And even though Patrick still called in from time to time . . .

"Hey."

"Hey."

"It's a little late. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. The Baby woke up with a fever. I gave him some infant Tylenol. He should be okay."

"Oh."

. . . it just wasn't the _same_.

"Do you want me to come home early so you can sleep?"

"No. I'll be fine. I just wanted to hear your voice."

And she realized that it was not . . .

". . . long term."

. . . something she wanted to do forever.

"That's okay. Something better will come along."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I do."

* * *

And it did.

Finally.

In the summer of 1986, word came to Annabel that the station was going to be looking for a new daytime disc jockey.

The problem?

". . . interview experience."

 _Shit._

And Annabel didn't have any.

 _Oh. Well._

 _Night shift, it is then._

 _Forever._

* * *

"Not necessarily."

She looked at Ma-Da.

 _Is she going to really tell me to lie?_

 _Ma-Da? No way._

 _What do I tell them? I interviewed David Bowie?_

"You can interview _us_."

She goggled.

"What?!"

Ma-Da's expression was reminiscent of the time Patrick had taken them to tour the chocolate factory.

And Annabel's double-headed mothers had bewildered . . .

 _And flirted a little, I think._

. . . with the poor guy attempting to count twos in the candy room.

"What? You don't think an interview with conjoined twins would be interesting enough in the world of technology?"

"You think we don't compare to Max Headroom?"

And Annabel couldn't think of a single thing to say.

* * *

"-joined twins? As in, Siamese?"

Annabel nodded affirmation she did not have confidence in.

"Yep. Two heads, one body. They're the only living pair in the world."

 _I think._

"They've already agreed and everything."

Doubtful consideration.

"Well. I don't know. You bring 'em in and we'll see how the interview goes. You nail it and I'll bring you in on a probationary period, okay?"

"You got it, man."

Pause.

"I mean, yes, sir."

* * *

And then she, of course, got nervous.

 _Oh god._

 _What if I blow it?_

 _Embarrass them and everything?_

 _Ma-Ba has one of her slightly lost spells she doesn't think I notice?_

 _What if the sound equipment goes down?_

 _What if I throw up?_

 _What if-_

* * *

She stopped at the seven-eleven on the side of the road.

Little nothing place.

Get a soda. A Coke. A Tab.

 _Anything_ to calm down her nerves on the drive home before she ran into a semi.

There was a big, dark bus parked outside and she had to . . .

 _Come on, dude. You're taking up the entire parking lot._

. . . angle around it.

And just as she reached the gas station door, it opened.

A tall, impossibly skinny man with short blond hair pushed it open, carrying a soda bottle and a pack of smokes.

Stopped.

And seemed to peruse her . . .

 _Whoa. Deja vu. Do I know this guy?_

. . . for a fraction of a second.

"Bloody beautiful orbs there, love."

Before speaking.

 _Wait_.

Then he lowered his shades just a touch.

 _Ziggy?_

And winked a heterchromiated eye at her.

 _Oh . . ._

Before strolling right on.

 _. . . my . . ._

And leaving Annabel gawking in his wake.

. . . _god._

* * *

"Okay! Let's do it!"

 _What?_

 _What is she talking about?_

 _I don't know but look at her._

 _I think she's on drugs. I haven't seen her look so up in ages._

"Annabel?"

"Let's do the interview! It's gonna be _awesome_!"

Dot smiled.

"We're all in, darling."

Bette agreed.

"And we expect the hard-hitting questions too."

And together, always together, they watched their daughter practically bounce from the room.

 _Are you sure she's not on drugs?_

 _No._

* * *

Her guardian angel known as The Thin, White Duke had appeared to her.

Her.

He had blessed her _life_.

Blessed _her_.

Reminded her who she _was_.

Annabel _Freaking_ Walker, baby.

 _Okay, well, not really._

It had just been another tall, lanky dude buying a coke and a pack of smokes.

Even heterchromiated eyes too.

People had them.

And even if it _was_ David _Freaking_ Bowie, . . .

 _Oh my goooooodddddddd-_

. . . he didn't have a _clue_ as to who she was or what she was going through.

And thus all of her feelings . . .

 _AHHHHHHH . . . ._

. . . were null and void.

The possibility also remained that she had just hallucinated the entire thing.

She had been prone to vivid daydreams . . .

 _"Better get to swimmin', girl-"_

. . . in the past.

But either way, whatever had or had not happened on the road from Sarasota to Brandon, the fact remained . . .

 _Bowwwiieeeeee . . ._

. . . that Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .

 _Oh . . . my . . . gooooossssshhhhh-_

. . . felt really, _really_ good.

 _This interview is going to_ rock _!_

* * *

 **I'll just let you decide if Annabel's developing full-blown schizophrenia or if she actually had a chance encounter with her longtime idol. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing!**

 **The interview is coming up next, though it may be a few days.**

 **See you then, wonderful readers!**


	84. The Terrific and Talented Tattler Twins

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Terrific and Talented Tattler Twins

* * *

"- Darling and I'm coming to you live and on the air today from Sunny Sarasota, Florida.

The autumn of '86 in Florida was, well, a Florida autumn.

So it was just slightly not as scorching as the season before it.

Right in the middle of it, Annabel Walker Anderson flat-out refused to sweat.

No, no, she was cool as a cucumber, man.

Sitting across from her two-headed, one bodied mothers . . .

 _I can do this. They can too. Bowie said._

 _Kind of._

 _Not really._

 _But we can._

 _We can do it._

Deep breath, confident voice.

She hoped.

"I am proud to introduce to you today, two of the loveliest, most intelligent, kindest women the world has _never_ seen."

Not allowing herself to feel the love and adoration pouring out of her mothers' shimmering eyes.

"If you saw them on the street, you'd blink your head and think you were seeing double. Most people do."

Otherwise she would get totally distracted and dissolve completely.

"But they're real, they're here, and for the first time in their lives, they are opening up to you out there in Radioland, ready to share their experience with you."

Instead of showing off her mothers as the amazing, incredible dynamic duo they really were.

"Ladies, please introduce yourselves to our audience out there in Radioland."

And get this damn job.

"Hello, my name is Dorothy Jean," Ma-Da spoke up. "Most people call me Dot."

Light and carefree introduction.

"And I am Elizabeth Ann. Most people call me Bette."

Lively upbeat tone.

"And we are . . ."

Together now, bright smiles and warm voices.

". . . completely conjoined twins!"

Everything was going really well so far.

Nobody had fainted, puked, or explosively emptied their bowels.

Least of all Annabel.

"And would please describe your unique situation for our listeners out there on the waves, ladies?"

Richard, the man responsible for deciding her job-oriented fate, hadn't blinked in over ten minutes.

Had nearly stuttered himself to death at introductions.

Which had given Annabel just the slightest touch . . .

 _I bet Bowie would tell them they were bloody fantastic._

 _He's cool like that._

. . . of satisfaction.

And now here they were.

The light was on, the mics were hot.

And Bette and Dot Tattler Darling Walker were revealing themselves to the listening world.

Again.

Of mid-western Florida anyway.

All for Annabel.

And she was _not_ going to screw it up.

They had practiced and rehearsed several questions.

Discussed topics and filtered ideas.

And felt relatively confident in their ability circumnavigate the radio-waves of WKS-103.

For three-quarters of an hour anyway.

"Well, we each have our own head but we only have one body . . ."

If they were lucky.

* * *

"What is something you would like our listeners to know about you?"

 _Ah, yes, the age-old question._

 _Can the freaks really be anything like us?_

"Well, really, in many ways, we're just like you," Bette relayed warmly. "We have our own separate thoughts and feelings, we like different books. We even prefer different foods."

Annabel watched them grin at each other before Ma-Da, ahem, _Dot,_ continued.

"We're best friends and even though we disagree sometimes, we do our best to respect each other as individuals."

Readying herself for the uncertainty ahead, Annabel transitioned the segment into the next phase.

"Well, it's time to open up the phone lines to callers. So if you'd like to ask our very special guests a question, please call in. Our number is . . ."

* * *

And this was the tricky part.

Allowing _others_ to ask questions.

The station, cleverly enough, had a person, Wren, who actually fielded the questions before the callers were sent through to the booth.

Still, . . .

"Hi, you're on the air with Ana Darling and our special guests, conjoined twins, Bette and Dot."

"Hi, uh, my name is Jeanne."

. . . it wasn't the most comfortable of situations.

"Hello, Jeanne," Bette cooed gently. "It's nice to meet you."

But they were sure as hell going to make it _seem_ like it was.

"I wanted to ask, uh, can you two drive a car?"

Easy question. Good start.

"Why, yes," Bette replied, with a tinge of pride. "Actually we do! We control the steering wheel together. And since I am on the left, I control the turn signal, the gearshift, and watch the roadsigns."

"And since I am on the right, I control the brake and gas pedals," Dot concluded.

A split second of quiet from the caller.

Then . . .

"Wow, that's, like, amazing! Sometimes I can't even manage driving by my _self_! How do you do it together?"

Fraction of a pause.

"We just talk to each other."

A form of the truth.

"Aright, thank you for your question, Jeanne. Next caller."

"Do you have to buy two movie tickets or just one when you go to the movies? Or do you go to the movies?"

"What do you do if one of you is sleepy but other one is wide awake?"

"Can you get colds at the same time?"

A few of the questions were a little stupider.

"Do people have trouble telling you apart?"

"Well, they really don't have to. Whereas other twins are always moving around and separate, we are always together in one place. Dot is on the right and, I, Bette, am on the left."

And that's where they left the caller in the dust.

"Wait, my left or your left? That sounds pretty confusing."

Conjoined twin smiles, a breadth of a second apart.

"Well, we also wear our headbands every day to keep our hair out of each other's eyes."

"The headbands are different colors."

"Ohhh, . . ."

They did not bother to mention that they switched out colors from time to time.

". . . okay. Cool."

It wouldn't do to confuse the poor child further.

She didn't seem very bright.

"Well, thanks for answering my question!"

"You are most welcome, . . ."

". . . darling."

Other questions they would never have considered on their own.

"Did your mom take, like, some sort of drugs or something, like those people with messed up fingers that made you turn out the way you are?"

"Oh, well, that _is_ an interesting question. We don't know."

"She never said."

* * *

"How do we know that there's really two women in that studio and not just one saying different things?"

 _Ah, yes. Ready, Sister?_

 _Of course._

"Somewhere . . ."

". . . over the rainbow . . ."

". . . way up high . . ."

* * *

"How do we know you're really stuck together like that and not just regular twins lying for attention? No offense."

A very real question indeed.

"You don't, I suppose."

"I guess you'll just have to come up here and see for yourselves."

"Oh. Okay. Sure."

Mildly panicked expressions from the few station people Annabel could actually _see_ at that moment.

 _Oh boy._

* * *

"I called up here and said I had a question about your hobbies but what I really want to know is why you think a disgusting couple of _freaks_ like you think you should be able to live in a world with _normal_ people like-"

Annabel, quick on the draw to protect her vulnerable, delicate mothers, cut the call off before the caller could continue his hate-filled rant.

"I apologize, Mrs Walkers," she intoned smoothly-ish. "This radio station does not allow the abuse of its guests. Differences of opinion may be discussed and debated, Radioland listeners, but never verbal attacks launched in order to hurt."

The conjoined women across from her seemed to manage to control their blanch with a grace and dignity Annabel could not imagine having in life _ever_.

And then Ma-Ba spoke, only the slightest hint of pain and sorrow tinging her tone.

"Believe it or not, Ana Darling, this is not the first time we have faced discrimination and hate. We have dealt with it in various forms all our lives."

And the Ma-Da took up the thread seamlessly.

"And we would like to say something now in light of it."

A noticeable deep breath from them both before continuing.

"We have tried all our adult lives to come to terms and accept who we are. We have tried to live honestly and kindly. It has not always been easy and we don't expect it to now."

Switching over now, Dot to Bette.

"If you hate us, mock us, or threaten us, or _anyone_ with a difference, for that matter, then it doesn't show poorly on us or that person. It shows poorly on _you_ as a human being to treat others so."

The entire station sat in stunned silence.

And Ana Darling knew, as she had always known, even when she pretended she didn't, that her exceptionally special mothers were absolutely, undeniably, perfectly amazing.

"Thank you, Bette, Dot. I believe you are exactly right."

 _Maybe they should have_ their _own radioshow._

* * *

"My question is kind of personal and I'm not trying to be rude or offensive or anything . . ."

"Hit us with your best shot, darling."

"Fire away."

 _Look at that Annabel grin._

 _Yes, I knew she'd appreciate that one._

"Okay, um, can one of you have an orgasm and the other not?"

They had agreed to this, thought it up.

For educational purposes.

And to get Annabel this job.

And though it wasn't a question they themselves had practiced, it was a real one.

That they were going to answer.

"Actually, yes. Our first time," Bette began. "It hurt quite badly for me."

"And I had the experience you're talking about," Dot related as factually as she could.

All the while watching Annabel refuse to turn purple with professionalism.

"So you have _sex_?" the caller gasped.

"Yes," Dot replied with a smile in her voice. "We do."

"We've actually been married to a wonderful man for over thirty years now."

"The same man?! And he . . . he loves you _both_?"

"Yes," Bette cooed proudly.

"Isn't that wonderful?" surreshed Dot.

"Yeah. Wow, that's . . . _wow_."

And even though they were slightly miffed, . . .

 _Well, okay, it's not_ that _incredible, Sister._

 _Yes, it is, Bette._

 _Alright, you're right. But still . . ._

. . . they really sort of understood.

"So . . . so there's hope for me?" the caller very nearly whimpered. "To find somebody to love? Like, for real love?"

And the Tattler twins hearts broke for her.

"Oh, sweetie, yes," Bette reached out gently with her voice.

"There's hope for all of us, darling," Dot followed suit. "There's always hope. Always."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," the caller babbled. "And God bless you."

And right then, right there, they should have known.

Did know.

Their lives were extraordinary.

Special.

Blessed.

And that Annabel . . .

"Thank you so much for tuning in, Radioland listeners. It's been my true and singular pleasure to spend this time with our guests, conjoined twins, Bette and Dot. Thank you ladies for allowing us a glimpse into your lives."

"You are most welcome, Ana Darling."

"It was our pleasure."

. . . had that job.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed Bette and Dot's first foray into radio!**

 **Grateful thanks to brigid1318, smclendon, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing!**

 **And you know, there's always repercussions for everything . . .**


	85. Sally Field Gets It

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Sally Field Gets It

* * *

"You've, uh, drawn quite the crowd outside."

They went slightly pale together . . .

 _You had to say it._

 _Well-_

. . . but remained steady.

"Are they protesting?"

Richard shook his head, looking surreptiously out the window again as he spoke.

"No, I don't think so. I think they just want to see you. To see that you're actually real."

He turned to Annabel.

"We could sneak them out the back. Bring your car around. Scoot 'em in and create a diversion."

Dot, voice strong and confident even in its gentility and warmth, cut off his developing get-away plans.

"No. We have nothing to hide. Bring the car around front. We'll walk to it together. Let them see."

Annabel instantly flinched.

"Uh, Moms?"

And Dot patted her daughter while Bette gifted her with an encouraging smile.

"It's alright, Annabel. We're proud to be who we are. It will be fine."

 _Are you sure, Sister?_

 _Yes, dear Sister. I am proud to be who we are._

 _No, I mean about the crowd._

 _. . . Yes. If you're with me._

 _You know I am._

* * *

And as they sashayed calmly to the ladies', Annabel pulled Richard to the side.

"Can you call the cops or someone? Have them set up a barricade or something?"

He nodded.

"Yeah. Stall them."

* * *

 _We never had a barricade when we were at the Freakshow._

 _No. We just had the stage. And Jimmy._

 _And that little French man jumping into the crowd._

 _I remember._

The google-eyed rubber-neckers stood in near silence.

About a crowd of fifty or so.

Just staring.

And Dot began to feel herself-

 _Oh, Sister-_

-lightheaded and short of breath.

 _No ma'am! You decided this. Head up, Dorothy Jean!_

 _. . ._

 _At least until we get to the car._

 _. . . Yes. Yes, you're right._

 _Yes, yes,_ we _are._

And they did not clench their hands together.

They did not hunch and scuttle.

They stood tall and proud and brave in the face of Normal People.

As they had done so many times before.

 _Remember the man who yelled out how many snatches did we have?_

 _What an ugly word for a body part. I hope he's not here today._

 _I hope he never got to be acquainted with another one again._

"Moms, you alright?" Annabel whispered at Bette's ear.

She refused to flinch. Instead summoned a smile even as she summoned words.

"Of course, Darling. The sun is just little bright after being inside the radio station for so long."

And then, one step at a time, from the building to the curb, they walked.

Annabel on one side, stoically bewildered officer of the law on the other.

Crowd waiting.

They were almost there, just a few steps away when they heard it.

It could have been an echo from the past.

Or paranoid hallucination of their overloaded minds.

"Oh my god. What ugly _freaks_."

Nevertheless, they did hear it.

And it was real.

They faltered -

"Moms, come on-"

-nearly stumbled-

"Moms-"

-and saw it out of the corner of their eyes.

"No, they're _not_!"

An angry rebuff.

And a challenging push to back it up.

"They're not _ugly_!"

A girl.

A young girl.

 _Why isn't she in school?_

 _Oh, I hope she's not a dropout, poor thing._

"They're beautiful!"

And a cry of encouragement.

"You're _beautiful_!"

And Bette and Dot turned.

A girl, just a slip of a girl.

Not much different than their dear, darling Annabel.

"And amazing! I love you!"

Face alight and nearly glowing.

Gazing at the two-headed, one-bodied women, old and aging and slightly dumpy, they supposed, in their-

 _Oh dear child-_

 _What an angel-_

-simple blue knee length dress.

And sensible shoes.

And they smiled, big and bright and toothy.

" _Thank_ you, darling!" Dot called back. "You're amazing too!"

"And beautiful!" Bette lavished. "So beautiful!"

Together now.

"We love you!"

And crowd laughed, more lightheartedly than perhaps they had been before the girl had spoken up.

Bette blew a directed kiss.

Dot, a warm, welcoming, waving hand.

First to their fan.

Then to the entire crowd.

 _Oh, I feel like Sally Field-_

 _Do not say it, Sister!_

And then they were ushered into the waiting car . . .

 _Oh, they like us!_

 _I know!_

 _They really like us!_

. . . and sped away.

* * *

Naturally, Jimmy their darling lost his precious, ever-loving _mind_.

"Hey, girls!" Fairly leaping up from his chair. "How did it go? You sounded _great_ , I was so _proud_!"

"Darling," Bette declared with the adrenaline of the truly euphoric. "We were _amazing_!"

Then they kissed his cheeks and giggled almost like young women again and Jimmy, their darling, beamed with pride.

"I'm not surprised, you've always been amazing to me! From a second I met you-"

"Right in front of the mess tent?" Dot teased.

"Wearing that sleeveless undershirt and winking like a charming little devil?"

Jimmy dashed a dimpled faux pout.

"Little, huh? Who you callin' ' _little_ '?"

And they fawned and cooed.

"Why, darling husband, we never meant to insinuate you were ever _anything_ other than a strapping, healthy _man_ -"

"But of course, if you want to _prove_ it-"

"Ahem."

And the flirtatious trio turned.

To see a slightly blushing Annabel standing in the doorway.

"Hey, there's my little roving reporter!"

"Daddy, that's not what I am-"

"Annabel, you've got the knack, you were fantastic today, you never missed a beat, your voice is like honey right from the comb, baby, I'm so proud-"

And he was off again.

* * *

And he didn't stop for hours, it seemed.

And hours.

"Yeah, Tom, you should've hear it-"

And _hours_.

"- voice like Elizabeth Taylor and all the intelligence and tenacity of Walter Cronkite! I'm tellin' ya, man, ain't nobody like my Annabel! She's gonna be _famous_!"

 _And to think_ , Bette communicated in amusement. _He didn't even want us to do it._

 _Tried to make us to take him for 'safety reasons'._

 _Worried himself inside out._

 _"Something might happen."_

 _"Somebody might say something."_

 _Now you'd think . . ._

"-too! My wives, Tom, nothing beats 'em! They're the cat's pajamas! Best thing since sliced bread!"

 _. . . it was his idea._

But they really were pleased it had gone so well.

And Jimmy was in such an unbridled delight.

Which they wouldn't have been able to stop anyway-

"-est man in the world at my amazing girls-"

. . . without a hefty dose of a very strong . . .

"-b in the bag!"

. . . large animal tranquilizer.

* * *

They found them of course.

The curious and determined always do.

"Excuse me, is this home of Bette and Dot?"

"Uh, yeah. May I help you?"

"Oh my goodness, are you the husband? Oh my gosh, I have so many questions for you, you all-"

"Uh . . ."

They were famous now, it seemed.

Sort of.

Kind of.

"Who did you say you were again?"

* * *

Some of the them were nice.

"-true delight to meet you!"

"Well, thank you, darling-"

Some weren't.

"-believe you freaks are really _real_ -"

"Now wait just a goddamn minute here! You don't talk to my wives that way!"

Then Jimmy their darling would turn the waterhose on the rude naysayer.

If his hooks . . .

"Ahhh! What the hell are you doing?!"

"Coolin you off, you piece of monkey shit! Bette, Dot! Call the police! Nobody treats my wives like that!"

. . . turned out not to be threat enough.

 _Oh dear sister, we may have to move._

 _We don't have time to pack, Dot, we have to take the pork chops out of the oven in a minute-_

* * *

But, eventually all the hoopla died down.

"-god! Did you see that?!"

And the world moved on. To the next . . .

"An alien just burst out of his chest!"

To the next . . .

"Shut _up_!"

. . . jaw-dropping sensation.

* * *

There were letters.

 _"Dear Bette and Dot, my twin sister and I can almost hear each other's thoughts. Do you two ever experience this-"_

Not many.

 _"Dear Bette and Dot, my husband and I are swingers and we were wondering if-"_

Not a sack-filled, Santa-load.

 _"Dear Bette and Dot, I have recently divorced my husband for being a two-bit cheater-"_

But enough.

 _"Dear Bette and Dot, do you have to file your taxes jointly or do you-"_

They came to the radio station . . .

 _"Dear Bette and Dot,-" Why is your name always written first, Elizabeth?_

. . . as the Tattler Twins had not been quite bold/rash/insane enough to toss out their personal geographical information . . .

 _Oh, uh, alphabetical order?_

. . . to the hungry freak-fascinated masses.

 _What do we do with these letters, Sister?_

 _Write back, Dot. Without a return address, of course._

And hand-delivered by their bemused . . .

"Let me know if Bowie's in there, okay?"

"Who, Sister?"

"I think it's the singer boy with the eyes?"

"Oh, him. He's sweet. I think."

"Oh my god, Moms-"

 _Write back. Of course._

 _Except for that swinger woman._

 _Yes. We'll leave her out._

 _Yes._

* * *

"-are famous or something."

Bette beamed as Dot remained pensive.

"So many of them are just lonely souls, reaching out for other human beings."

Bette now, awash with amused wonder.

"Some of them are asking us for advice. Like a fortune teller-"

 _Mystic Miss Esmerelda_ , Jimmy thought randomly-

". . . Dear Abby columnist."

Shy Bette chuckle.

"As if we'd know any better than anyone else about how to deal with the intricacies of life."

Jimmy didn't seem near as bewildered as she.

"Well, I mean, yeah, you know, you two are just as smart and wise as anyone else out there."

Shrugging even, gesturing with a wooden lobster claw, chosen appendage for a sentimental evening of relaxation.

"Maybe even more so, ya know? Because of your special connection and the life you've lived. You've got a different . . . perspective on life."

He grinned a dimple.

"And they don't feel like you're gonna throw some stuck-up mumbo-jumbo at 'em like that preacher and his wife on tv who were stealin' money."

He paused.

"You care better."

 _We care better._

 _Can you imagine-_

"We love you, Jimmy."

"I love you girls too."

* * *

 _Dear Gina, yes, in fact, Bette and I do feel like we can read each other's thoughts from time to time. Isn't being a twin grand-_

 _Dear Francis, we are sorry for such hardship that you have endured. But we assure you are worth a man who will love you and only you for all of his life-_

 _Dear Susan, although our income tax information is private only into the IRS, we do feel like we can say-_

* * *

 _I am still not writing to the swingers._

 _Goodness, no, Sister. What would we say?_

 _Ewww?_

So was the cost of fame.

* * *

 **Yeah, yeah, I know.**

 **"You're breathtaking!" "No, _you're_ breathtaking!"**

 **Thank you, Keanu and Keanu-worshippers.**

 **But come on, don't we all need a little more freely-given goodwill and encouragement in this day and age?**

 **Because we're _all_ beautiful! And amazing! And breathtaking!**

 **Okay, okay, I'll calm down.**

 **But it's true. ;)**

 **Particular thanks to these gracious reviewers, midnightrebellion86, autumnrose2010, and smclendon! Thank you!**

 **And thank you to all the silent readers of this story as well!**


	86. The Other Cost of Fame

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Other Cost of Fame

* * *

Just about the time Reagan and the Russian guy were spending the summer of '87 arguing over walls . . .

"This new job is so _awesome_!"

"I'm glad you like it."

. . . Annabel was facing her own life changing choices.

"Except, uh . . ."

"What?"

Which were going to have a profound effect on . . .

"Well . . . Sarasota."

"Yeah."

. . . her entire family.

"To here?"

"Yeah?"

Even the dog.

"I don't want to drive an hour one way."

Silence.

"And I really want to be able to . . . you know . . . really _do_ it, you know?"

More silence.

"I mean, I'm not trying to get away from my parents . . . I know you love being around them and I like it too . . . I . . . just . . . I don't . . ."

Deathly silence.

"Patrick?"

* * *

It was the dead of night.

They had gone to bed hours ago.

Little Jimmy sandwiched between them.

One hand with fingers dangerously close to being jammed up Daddy Patrick's nose.

And a foot currently threatening the spleen of Mommy Annabel.

She was used to it.

Sleep was evading her for other reasons.

And leaving her just laying there, quiet as possible.

Listening to her husband who hated her, just _hated_ her, she knew it, breathe.

Breathe deep and evenly amid the earth-tilting, heart-breaking revelation she had dumped on him hours before.

And then watched him be silent and withdrawn ever since.

Washing up the dishes together.

Bathing Little Jimmy.

Taking Scruffy Sam the Sublime for a walk, the three of them.

Sitting next to her on the couch to watch Moonlighting, arm around her.

Curiously quiet even during Bruce Willis' snark-filled, witty comebacks.

Brushing his teeth, using the facilities.

Kissing her nice but not particularly passionately.

Arranging himself according to Little Jimmy's arms and legs.

And then still and silent.

And now here they were.

And Annabel wondered if this night was ever going to end.

And what the coming days would be like when it was over.

 _He finally has the family he always wanted ._

 _And I'm taking it away from him._

 _Because I'm me._

 _And bad._

 _Oh god._

* * *

Then Patrick shifted.

Turned to her.

Reached out with a tender hand.

"I want to support you in your dreams, Annabel."

 _But . . ._

As if reading the thought bubble hanging over her head in vibrant, flashing neon.

And then he spoke again.

"There is no but. I support you in your dreams, Annabel."

And just as she felt herself beginning to shake, he continued.

"We'll make it work with your parents. Weekend visits, maybe even have them come down to us on vacation when we have a big enough place."

A pause, Patrick in its consideration and lengthiness.

"I don't know what we'll do with The Baby while we're working. But we'll figure something out."

Then silence fell.

Broken by Annabel's sniffing and snuffling.

"I just . . . I just don't want you to hate me, Patrick. For taking you away from them."

He leaned to her then, earning a disgruntled wiggle from the splayed little one between them.

"I could _never_ hate you, Annabel."

Kissing whatever part of her face he found first.

Ridge of the eyebrow.

"I love you."

And she was grateful, so, so grateful for him her husband.

"I love you too, Patrick."

* * *

 _I don't believe it._

 _Grab the ductape, Sister. We're going to keep her in one place if it's the last thing we do._

Jimmy's lined face was closed and careful.

"You've, uh, you've been driving it okay, haven't you? To your job and back every day?"

As Annabel hesitated, nodded.

Jimmy bit his lip, chewed on it.

Thinking.

"Is it the gas money? We could help with that."

Annabel shook her head, looking like she wanted to cry.

"No, no, I just-"

"Is it something we've done, darling?" Dot cut in quietly.

"Are we . . . overbearing? With Little Jimmy?" Bette now, matching her sister's tone and clutching her hand.

Tears from Annabel's eyes fell.

"No, no! You guys have been really great! I mean, that's the thing we're going to miss the most, actually, right, Patrick?"

Smearing her blue eyeliner and red rogue.

"I mean . . ."

And she rambled on and on, fumbling and falling over her words and loving her parents and wishing she wasn't so determined to go off into the world.

Without them.

And she hoped it would be alright.

* * *

Patrick, on the other hand . . .

 _Sister, it is too late for cheesecake._

 _I heartily disagree._

. . . simply showed up at their back kitchen door later that night.

"Patrick, darling, is everything okay?"

While Jimmy was in the bath with Annabel.

"Yes. I was just taking Sam for a walk."

And Bette was haranguing her much too disciplined sister . . .

"Oh. All right."

"Won't you come in, darling?"

. . . for a quick nibble.

He stepped inside, seeming slightly awkward but determined.

 _What is going on, dear Sister?_

 _I don't know. I've been with_ you _all day._

 _Elizabeth_ Ann _-_

 _Yes, Dorothy Jean?_

"I just wanted you to know I'm very grateful for your support of Annabel."

Their hearts swelled.

"And me."

And painfully, metaphorically, exploded.

"I know you don't want us to go."

Patrick's voice was steadily getting quieter.

"And it wasn't really what I was expecting either."

Thicker.

"But it's not because we don't care about you or Jimmy or this family."

Heavier.

"But Annabel is everything to me. I have to support her dreams."

And then, because they couldn't stand his pain any longer-

 _Oh, Sister-_

 _Hug the dear boy!_

-they reached out to him, emotionally . . .

"Patrick, darling . . ."

-and physically.

". . . we love you! We're so grateful you and Annabel found each other out there in the mountains."

"We're so grateful she brought you back."

"You are such a wonderful young man-"

"The best!"

"And we could not be _prouder_ of you."

They were stroking his hair, squeezing him with all their conjoined twin strength.

"You have brought a new light and joy into our family-"

Sandwiching him between their necks.

"-and have only made it better."

Like a beloved son unto his adoring mothers.

"You may be going further away than we preferred-"

Doing their supreme best . . .

"But you are no less a part of this family for it."

. . . to make up for every moment of his life . . .

"And you can come back-"

. . . he had ever felt unloved and alone.

"We insist!"

Honestly.

"For visits anytime-"

Sincerely.

"-every weekend if you like-"

Simple because he was him.

"And we will always welcome you with love-"

And wonderful.

"-and a smile."

And good.

Then they finally spoke together, drawing back so they could see him.

Hands pressed gently to either side of his face.

"We love you, Patrick Oliver Anderson. More than you could ever know."

And watched him smile an unashamed, beautiful smile.

 _Oh, Sister-_

 _What a boy-_

Realized they were all having a group breakdown together.

 _I love him so._

 _Yes._

And tried . . .

"But since you are here for now and we've all wept properly . . ."

. . . to lighten the mood somewhat.

". . . how about sharing some cheesecake with us?"

And Patrick, his own adoration glowing out of his chest . . .

"Okay."

. . . agreed.

"Thanks."

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'd like that alot."

And moving to cupboard for the plates.

* * *

 **So we're doing this again, are we? Yeah.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing before. :)**

 **Hope everyone's enjoying whatever holidays they celebrate!**

 **Or at least just being alive, if that's your thing. :)**


	87. High Life and High Emotions

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

High Life and High Emotions

* * *

Sarasota . . . was . . . _awesome_.

There was tons of shopping.

 _You know, for_ music _and stuff._

And restaurants, usually the high-end, expensive kind that they just sort walked past.

The beaches were free. If you could, like, find a spot.

And some suntan oil.

There were art galleries and museums.

A botanical garden and an aquarium.

There was a state park and playground parks.

And mansion tours and ballgames.

There were walking trails and horse riding trails.

There was insane traffic and yuppies and leftover hippies.

And people just wanting to par- _tay_.

And even homeless on the street.

"Will work for food."

 _Those poor people._

Which was not awesome.

And no Ma-Da and no Ma-Ba and no Daddy.

Which was . . .

"Hey. I wonder if we could get Moms to make, oh, uh-"

"What?"

"Oh. Uh, nothing. Want to have . . . mac and cheese for supper tonight?"

"Sure. I think we got a box."

 _Ugh. Powder. Moms use real cheese._

. . . fine.

 _We lived on our own in Color-, in coll- before. I even lived alone by myself in my little shoebox and everything._

But what they _hadn't_ done in the before time, what Annabel had been planning to do in the before time, was . . .

"Hey, Jimmy, time to go to the potty."

"No. Play."

. . . raise their own damn child.

"But you're going to have an-"

 _Oh._

 _Okay then._

"Come on, kid. Let's change you and give you a bath."

All. The. Time.

"No. Play."

"No, _bath_."

"No, _play_."

"Play _in_ the bath."

". . . Okay."

Which was fine.

It was good.

"Eat your carrots, please."

"No. Ice ceam."

"Ice cream isn't supper."

"Ice ceam."

People did it all the time.

And Annabel wasn't a bad mother.

"Time for bed."

"No. Play."

And Patrick was a great father.

"Come on, let's pick out a bedtime book."

"Mmm . . . okay."

She, they, she could fairly judge, just weren't used to doing it all . . .

"Okay, who wants scrambled eggs?"

"Fop farts!"

. . . by themselves.

"No, scrambled eggs. Pop tarts aren't good for you all the time."

But it was good, it was fine.

It was . . .

"Fop farts!"

. . . growing experience.

And Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .

"Is he asleep?"

"Um, yeah."

"So we're watching Smurfs for us now?"

"Yeah. The remote's way over there."

"Oh. Okay."

"Sorry."

"No. So, this is pretty awesome, huh?"

"Yeah. It actually is."

"I love you, Patrick."

"I love you, Annabel."

"We love you, Jimmy."

"Snore."

"Okay then."

* * *

Their rented house was pretty much standard.

Not quite a thousand square feet.

Eight hundred maybe.

Two bed . . .

"Jimmy, baby, don't you want to go sleep in your _own_ bed?"

"No. Stay with Mommy."

. . . one bath . . .

"Jimmy, paper towels do not go in the potty."

"Frog."

"What?"

. . . galley kitchen . . .

"Okay, Jimmy, where'd you put your milk cup?"

"Gabbage."

"What?"

. . . dining nook . . .

"More mashed potatoes, Jimmy?"

"No. Fop farts."

"Jimmy-"

"Fop _farts_!"

. . . and living room.

"Hey, uh, Jimmy's gonna wake up from his nap soon-"

"I know. But he's in our bed and I'm not doing it in _his_ room. The bathroom's just gross and the kitchen's too small!"

And it was not all that different, they figured.

* * *

Scruffy Sam the Sublime seemed to like it alright.

"Hey, poochie, you okay?"

Tail wag.

Where they were, he was.

Wagging up on ten years, they thought, and only slightly sleeping more . . .

"Scuffy Sam want to go outside?"

"Whine."

. . . than before.

"Maybe later. It's raining."

"Want to go out _side_!"

"Jimmy-"

* * *

They had talked about it before they'd moved.

". . . couple of weeks, just 'til we get settled."

"If you think so."

"Yeah, I mean, it'll help with the transition and all. Especially for Little Ji- I mean, Jimmy."

"Oh."

It was her idea.

She was already hired, starting training next week.

"Okay. If you say so."

"I do."

And they would be moving to a new house, a new town, an hour away from what they had known for nearly three years.

So it really kind of was . . .

"Okay. Cool."

. . . a good idea.

* * *

"-'s going to stay home with The Baby for a few weeks while we adjust to life. And find a babysitter."

 _Who the hell is going to be a babysitter for them?_

 _Us! We were! And we were doing just fine, thank you!_

 _Now some . . . outsider?! Somebody who doesn't even_ know _him?!_ Love _him?!_

 _Someone who doesn't even_ understand _him?!_

 _A stranger?! I don't feel well._

 _He's just a baby!_

 _And he was doing so well with us! I feel sick._

 _We all were doing well! Until she decided to move!_

 _Don't remind me_ _!_

"Well, sounds like you have it all worked out then."

"Patrick will be wonderful at home with The Baby, we're sure."

At least they have that.

 _But for how long?!_

 _Until they hand him over to some . . . some . . . stranger!_

 _I expected better from Patrick!_

"Are you saying I wasn't?"

"Of course not, darling."

 _Oh, who_ cares _about_ her _feelings?!_

"We just meant-"

 _She obviously doesn't care about_ ours _!_ She's _taking our_ grandson _away!_

"-since he's the one that going to be staying home-"

"-he will be good at it."

 _Little brat. We raised a little brat girl._

 _And we're still doing it!_

"Oh. Okay. Cool."

 _Please. It is most certainly_ not _cool._

 _Especially in_ this _heat._

* * *

And it _did_ go well when they moved.

"Okay, gotta go! Be back around two?"

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you too. 'Bye, Jimmy!"

"'Bye, Ma!"

* * *

At first.

"Hey, how was your day?"

"Great! We made pancakes for breakfast. Jimmy helped. And then, well, we cleaned up _after_ the pancakes . . . anyway, we took Sam to the park and he went on the slide with Jimmy-"

"Whine."

"-ack and ate some peanut butter crackers before nap."

"Cool."

"Then we read some books and colored."

"Oh, cool."

"Whine."

"We also threw the crayons."

"We?"

"Jimmy."

"Whine."

"Okay. I threw some too."

"Whine."

"Okay, alot. But we cleaned it up."

"Whine."

"Mostly."

"Cool. What's for supper?"

"Sloppy Joes and fries. Oh and a side salad."

"Cool."

* * *

Really well, in fact.

"Hey, how was your . . . day?"

"Ma!"

"Hey, Jimmy! Whatcha got on you, baby?"

"Paint!"

"Heyyy, Annabel!"

"Patrick! What happened to . . . what in the . . . what's on your legs?"

"Paint."

"Why?"

"Jimmy painted me."

"I can see that. You look like the Jolly Green Giant."

* * *

Smoother than ever before actually.

"Hey, how's my boys?"

"Hey, Ma!"

"Hey, Annabel."

The house was cleaner than ever.

"Hey, Patrick, where's my clothes I threw in the washer last night?"

"Cleaned and hung up."

"Oh. Thank you."

Food was on the table every night.

"What's for dinner?"

"Chicken a la King."

"Wow. I'm impressed."

"It's just chicken and vegetables and biscuits and gravy."

"I know. It's still cool."

"Thank you."

And Patrick and The Baby seemed to be getting along really well.

"Jimmy, want to sing the ABCs to Mommy?"

"A, B, E, D . . ."

"Well, we're working on it."

* * *

"Patrick, how long have my mothers been writing to you?"

Patrick looked up.

Annabel held up the letter . . .

 _Dear Patrick,_

. . . she had found on the dresser.

 _We were so glad to see you Sunday._

Not exactly accusing.

 _Little Jimmy is growing like a weed._

But a little confused.

 _It is clear and evident . . ._

And slightly, well, she didn't want to admit what else she slightly was.

 _. . . that you and Annabel are caring for him so well._

 _Because, . . ._

 _We're so proud of the two of you for being such good and loving . . ._

 _. . . well, . . ._

 _. . . parents to him._

 _. . . I thought they only wrote to_ me _._

"Since we moved."

I'm _their kid._

"Is that alright?"

 _Not_ you _._

Then she realized how . . .

 _You're their son-_ in-law _._

. . . awful that sounded.

"Yeah."

Would sound aloud.

"I mean . . . _yeah_."

And how hurtful it would be to her orphan husband.

"It's totally cool."

And she decided . . .

"I just can't believe they have so much to say."

. . . to stop being such a bitch about it.

"Oh yeah. They definitely do."

* * *

"Dear Bette and Dot . . ."

 _Oh, Sister-_

 _I just love that he writes us back._

"This week is going well."

 _Annabel_ never _writes us back._

"Little Jimmy thinks he's too big for naps now."

 _You'd think she had broken_ hands _or something._

"So I've been running him at the park in the mornings . . ."

 _She's just so . . ._ forward _all the time._

". . . and now he's decided he actually readily still likes them."

 _Never slowing down._

"He likes to pile his blankets and pillows . . ."

 _She loves us though._

". . . on top of his head . . ."

 _Of course she does._

". . . and sing himself to sleep."

This _boy, on the other hand-_

"I worry he'll suffocate."

 _Oh, this precious boy-_

"But Annabel said he was a little . . ."

 _I do love him so._

". . . whack-a-mole . . ."

 _Oh yes. So much._

". . . and even though I'm not sure what she means, . . ."

 _What should we write him in our next letters?_

". . . I guess he'll be fine."

 _Let's give him our peach cobbler recipe._

 _Yes!_

* * *

 **So Patrick's living his best life, huh? ;)**

 **And I hope you all are living yours, whatever they may be.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86! You are always such kind and supportive reviewers. I really appreciate that.**

 **And Fop Farts? My four year old. XD**


	88. The Distance Thing

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Distance Thing

* * *

They also made the trip back to Brandon . . .

"Good morning, darling!"

"Hey, Moms!"

"Good drive up, Patrick?"

"Yes, sir."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy."

"Good. Now, come here and give me a hug."

"Ma-Da!"

"Darling!"

"Ma-Ba!"

"Darling!"

"Granddaddy!"

"Hey, Little Man!"

. . . every Sunday morning after a lazy and relaxed weekend breakfast.

"How're you likin' the new radio job, Annabel? You know, your moms and me, we listen to it every morning it's on."

"It's good! At least I see daylight now."

"Patrick, how you liking staying at home?"

Small, happy Daddy Patrick smile.

"I like it. I know it's not traditional or anything-"

Errant wave of shiny metal hook.

"Hey, whatever works for you guys. I miss gettin' to spend all day with this little man . . ."

Completely unintentional skewering of Sarasota's newest morning dj.

". . . so I get enjoyin' spending time with him."

"Any _way_ , who's in the game today, Daddy?"

"Oh, I don't know. Ya know, whoever."

* * *

Sometimes they broke bread with the Clarks.

"Patty's oldest is getting ready for high school, can you believe?"

"I'm just surprised she's not already married with a kid on the way-"

"Annabel!"

"Oh, it's alright, Patty does have a big family, doesn't she? At Christmas, I tell you, what we spend on gifts . . ."

Sometimes with Lucy.

"- Orlando?"

"Oh, it's going alright, I suppose. I actually am doing more directing of the program than hands-on now but-"

And sometimes it was . . .

"Patrick, did I ever tell ya about the time Annabel-"

 _Oh my god, Daddy, what are you-_

. . . just the six of them.

* * *

They always hated to go.

"-when we get home, okay?"

"Alright. Be safe."

"We love you."

"Say 'bye to Granddaddy."

"'Bye, Granddaddy."

"Say 'bye to Ma-Da and Ma-Ba."

"'Bye Ma-Da and Ma-Ba."

"'Bye, baby! We love you!"

Moms would inevitably look teary-eyed.

Daddy would inevitably direct a five dollar bill into Patrick's . . .

"You don't have t-"

"Hush, son. We want to."

. . . reluctant palm.

And Annabel and Patrick would inevitably. . .

"That was a nice time."

. . . have the same conversation . . .

"Yep."

. . . they always had.

"Food was good."

Baby-not-baby-anymore Jimmy asleep in his car seat.

 _God, I can't believe he's almost five._

"Yep."

Scruffy Sam the Sublime next to his small charge . . .

"They seem to really happy to see The Baby."

. . . head drowsing on paws.

"Yeah."

And, of course, . . .

"And us."

. . . music on the radio.

"Yeah."

And it really, really was . . .

". . . into the danger zone . . ."

. . . okay.

"I love you, Annabel."

"I love you, Patrick."

". . . into . . . the danger zooooonnne . . ."

* * *

But life . . .

"Um, about Sunday . . ."

"What is it, darling?"

"Well, there's a thing we wanted to do, you know, as a family . . ."

"Oh. Well, alright."

Ma-Ba's voice was curiously flat and disheartened.

"I'm sorry, it's just . . ."

Pretending it wasn't.

"No, no, Annabel. Not at all."

And she felt really guilty.

"Would you like to come Saturday instead . . . or next weekend?"

But she really, really . . .

"Next weekend, I think. I've got stuff Saturday."

. . . wanted to do the thing.

"Well . . . that'll be just fine then. No problem. Your father and Bette and I will probably just stay in and relax."

Like, _really_.

"I like that'd be nice."

And Ma-Da said it was okay.

"Yeah. Sounds like."

So it must be.

* * *

 _It only took a few months._

 _Six, Sister._

 _Little Jimmy's going to forget us._

 _So young, of course he will._

 _I can't believe it's already happening._

 _She may as well go back to Colorado now for all we're going to see them anymore._

 _Don't you dare challenge her with that_

Jimmy, their darling, appearing in from outside the kitchen door.

The spring in his step lessened somewhat in advancing age.

But dimpled grin . . .

"Hey girls, did you think we could have a lemon icebox pie Sunday when the kids come up?"

. . . still just as recognizable as ever.

And clueless.

 _Oh, Dot!_

 _Oh, Bette!_

"Oh, _Jimmy_!"

"How could you _say_ something like that?!"

Jimmy taken aback as his dear darling wives buried their sobbing faces in dishcloths.

"Well, I mean, we don't . . . I'm sorry . . . I thought you _liked_ lemon icebox pie . . ."

"Ohhh!"

* * *

The letters had started back up again.

A little before she had discovered their letter to Patrick.

Years and years without them.

Ever since they'd moved back.

She hadn't missed them.

They'd been right next door.

But now that they were farther away.

"-ly rates are just deplorable, can you imagine?"

And the advent of instant messaging and Skype was still far, far in the distant future . . .

"Yeah, it's crazy. How about Wednesday nights? Eight-thirty?"

"Sure. We'll write it on the calendar."

. . . the mailbox surprise once a week . . .

 _Dear Annabel,_

. . . actually was a pleasant . . .

 _We know we only saw you Sunday . . ._

. . . addition to her day.

 _. . . but it seems so odd to wake up in the morning and know Mrs. Farris and her feral cats are next door to us instead of you._

She read usually with a smile.

 _I don't think any of them are spayed._

Frequently a chuckle.

 _And we're afraid we're about to be overrun by miniature saber-tooth tigers . . ._

And then handed them over to an interested . . .

 _. . . before long. God save us all._

. . . and hovering Patrick.

There was never anything in them that couldn't wait until Sunday to be discussed.

 _Dear Annabel,_

But she figured it was the simple act of writing them . . .

 _Dot and Jimmy are being slowly driven mad by Mrs. Farris' horde of cats._

. . . made them feel comforted.

 _They don't really bother me so much . . ._

And she was far enough on in her adulthood that she could appreciate . . .

 _. . . if only they didn't smell bad . . ._

. . . the loving parents Patrick had never had.

 _. . . and have loud, angry sex in our hedges._

And now seemed to dote on.

 _We're afraid they might kill the shrubs._

* * *

"Good morning, darlings!"

"Hey, Moms!"

"Good drive up?"

"Yes."

"Ma-Da!"

"Darling!"

"Ma-Ba!"

"Darling!"

"Granddaddy!"

"Hey, Little Man!"

"Who's in the game today, Daddy?"

"Oh, I don't know. Ya know, whoever."

* * *

She knew it was a possibility.

 _I mean, you know, it happens._

It had certainly happened to her during the months after she and Patrick moved back from Colorado.

That being said, she had been _growing_ a baby at the time.

Which accounted for it.

And Patrick, dear Patrick, was _raising_ said baby.

 _And Moms have been giving him their treasured dessert recipes._

Still . . .

 _I mean, I guess it's kind of cute._

 _And he's still the same Patrick to me._

 _Even if he is past thirty now._

 _They say that's when your metabolism starts to slow down anyway._

 _Whoever_ they _are._

"I think this shirt got shrunk in the dryer."

"Uh, yeah, Patrick, that happens sometimes."

"Will you hand me another one out of the drawer?"

 _I don't think that's gonna help, my little panda bear._

"Sure."

It didn't.

But it really wasn't . . .

"Maybe if I stretch it . . . no."

. . . a very big weight gain after all.

"More cheesecake, Annabel?"

"No, I'm good. Why don't we save the rest for tomorrow night?"

"Okay."

Not much.

* * *

 **Life, life, what a balancing act,** **huh?**

 **Anyway, thanks for reviewing, midnightrebellion86! You rock,** **dude. :)**

 **Next up, the balance tilts.**


	89. Should Have Stuck With The Fop Farts

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Should Have Stuck With The Fop Farts

* * *

Sometimes, life is grand.

Peachy keen, jelly bean.

"Oh my _gosh_ , this is delicious!"

"Ummm, agtmwsfb . . ."

"Where did you _get_ this again?"

"That little seven-eleven on the corner."

"Argm, pass me that tray-"

"Here, Jimmy, try some-"

"No. Fop farts."

"I am not having this conversation with you again."

"Fop _farts_!"

* * *

And sometimes . . .

"Oh. My. God."

"Ugh."

"I don't . . . I don't think we should have eaten that."

"No. Urgh-"

. . . it totally and unequivocally . . .

"Is The Baby okay?"

"Uh, I think so. He's watching Inspector Gadget."

"Is Sam okay?"

"Ugh, yeah. He's needs a walk."

"Oh god."

. . . blows chunks.

"I think . . . I think . . . I think we need to call your parents."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Can you do it? I need to throw up."

"I don't . . . I don't know how to dial a phone at this point, hurg-"

Like, literally.

* * *

"Mrs. Walker?"

"Hello? Who is that?"

"Patrick, is that you?"

"Why are you being so form-"

"Can you come down here and . . . help us? We've got . . . food poisoning. I'm really sorry to ask you, we're mostly concerned about The Baby-"

"Oh, no, darling, we're glad to help! We'll be down just as soon as we can pack a bag!"

"Thank . . . thank you."

"Of course, darling. We love you!"

* * *

 _We're going to get sick off this, you know._

 _We may. But we have to help._

 _There's going to be no room for us._

 _No. But it's not a holiday._

"Jimmy, darling, Bette and I are going to Sarasota!"

"Okay . . . wait, what?"

* * *

"You sure you'll be okay?"

"Yes. They need our help."

"Do you . . . do you think I should go with you?"

"No, darling. We'll be stuffed in there as it is. They're not even set up for us."

"It's not going to pleasant, that's for sure. You stay here and keep the home fires burning."

"Well, okay. If you're sure."

"We are, darling."

"We'll call you when we get there."

"Okay. I love you two."

"We love you, darling."

* * *

Surely people gawked at them.

Stared at them.

Had to focus to avoid swerving into coming traffic when they saw them.

But Dot and Bette Tattler Darling Walker didn't notice.

 _Turn right two streets down._

 _Okay._

Because they . . .

 _And then a left at this stop sign._

 _Alright._

 _We're almost there._

 _Thank goodness._

. . . were on a mission to help their son-in-law.

And whoever else was sick in that house.

* * *

"-coming. I'm so sorry to have c-"

"No, Patrick," Dot interrupted gently. But firmly. "You did exactly what you're supposed to do. Where's the baby?"

"Taking a nap. He's not sick so far."

"Good. Now," Bette directed authoritatively. "Go to the bathroom or get in bed. We'll take care of everything."

"And Sam-"

"We'll take care of Sam too."

Patrick's anxiety and worry-filled face relaxed so much they momentarily thought he would simply collapse at their feet.

Then-

"Okay. Thank you."

-he turned and steadily shuffled away.

 _Poor boy._

 _Yes._

 _Well, let's check the rest of the unwell._

 _Jimmy first._

The thirty-second phone call. No time to spare, darling.

"-you."

"I love you two."

 _Now we can get on with it._

There wasn't much it to get along with.

The abode was very small. Not even a hall afforded extra space.

Two bedrooms separated by the most space-efficient bathroom . . .

 _Careful, Sister. We don't want to get stuck in there._

 _Well, we just won't turn around then._

. . . they had seen since Annabel's apartment in Colorado.

To the left, Little Jimmy's room.

A quick, careful peek reassured them the child was asleep in his bed . . .

 _I thought he slept with them._

 _Not in their current condition he's not._

. . . quite peacefully.

Four steps from that door to the next and . . .

 _Oh dear, it smells._

 _Sick people smell like that._

. . . a cursory glance showed them a disheveled Annabel and Patrick huddled pitifully in their shared bed.

Pale and weak and wan.

As Annabel twitched a trembling hand . . .

 _Poor baby girl._

 _We'll hug her_ after _she showers, Sister._

. . . they responded briefly.

And closed the door again.

* * *

And then they went to work.

 _Let's see what we have here._

Peanut butter. Jelly. Bread. Potato chips.

Toaster pastries.

Carrots. Grapes. Milk.

Cookies. Candy. Bananas.

 _Okay. This is all fine to start Little Jimmy off with._

 _But it will not help the sick ones._

 _We'll get to that._

Then they _really_ got to work.

Lysol. Borax. Baking soda. Cloths.

And hot water.

Copious, copious amounts of hot water.

The kitchen first, so they could assure a cleanly environment with which to nourish their charges.

A through Lysol spraying of the living room area.

And then . . .

 _Are you ready, Sister?_

 _No. Let's go._

. . . the bathroom.

 _You can always tell how sick people are by the condition of their bathroom._

 _I think they might be dying._

 _Don't even joke._

And they cleaned.

* * *

 _Oh Sister, I think we could use some coffee._

 _Especially after Annabel just went back in the bathroom after we cleaned it._

 _Yes. I know._

 _If they weren't sick, I'd be mad._

 _If they weren't sick, we wouldn't be here._

They had just poured a small cup for each of them.

Taken the first sips when . . .

"Ma-Ba? Ma-Da?"

"Well, hello, Little Jimmy!"

"Did you have a good nap, darling?"

"Where's Mommy and Daddy?"

Warm kisses. Strong but gentle hug.

Hair soothing . . .

 _Look at that cowlick in the back._

 _He just couldn't be any cuter._

"Mommy and Daddy are sick in bed. We're here to take care of you."

Careful consideration by the world's most precious, little . . .

"Fop farts?"

. . . conniving four year old ever.

"Pardon?"

* * *

Bette and Dot read books to Little Jimmy.

Watched TV with Little Jimmy.

Fed the dog with Little Jimmy.

"Hello, you sweet pooch."

"How's your tummy?"

"Whine."

"Scuffy Sam fine."

Walked the dog with Little Jimmy.

"Ma-Da, he pooped!"

"Yes, darling, we see."

"Poop yucky!"

"Well, better out than in, I always say."

 _Tell that to Annabel and Patrick right now._

 _Hush._

They fed him peanut butter sandwiches and carrots and milk.

Themselves nibbled on more of the same.

Thereby keeping the nausea-inducing smells to a minimum for the sickies.

And of course . . .

"Just checking in on you, darling. How are you?"

"Still puking my guts out, Ma-Da. How are you?"

"Well, we've brought you some ginger ale and crackers. Try to nibble and sip a little."

"Thank you, Ma-Ma."

"You're welcome, Patrick."

And they closed the door and stood in the space between the living room space and the kitchen space.

 _Wait, did Patrick just say Ma-Ma to you?_

 _He's ill, Sister. He was mumbling._

. . . they checked on the sickies.

* * *

 _I am_ not _bathing him in that bathroom._

 _Not yet, no._

 _Maybe tomorrow._

They slept on the couch.

 _We need more milk, Sister._

 _And toilet paper._

 _And cleaning chemicals._

 _I think it's time, Bette._

 _Yes, Dot._

 _Are you with me?_

 _You know I am._

"Alright, Little Jimmy . . ."

"Would you like to go for a ride in the car with Ma-Da and Ma-Ba?"

"Yes!"

They left a note.

* * *

 **See, balance tilted. Digestive balance that is.**

 **And real. My husband and I were deathly ill once when our oldest was four months old. It was godawful. And my godmom dropped everything immediately and stayed and took care of our boy and us. While my husband's blood family who lived closer refused to help.**

 **So, you know, whatever. I choose my godmom. And the Tattler Sisters, don't you?**

 **But now they're out in the world. Wonder how that's gonna go?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, smclendon (we all have those little regrets, you never can see just what will be; i hope you're alright), and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing before! Hope your tummies are okay. ;)**


	90. All This Fuss For a Jug of Milk

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

All This Fuss For a Jug of Milk

* * *

Saltine crackers.

Ginger ale.

Bananas.

And oats.

The plainest, blandest, most stomach compassionate food they could possibly nourish them on.

To start.

Relatively easy.

More milk for the little one.

And the grocery store, a Winn-Dixie, was nice enough.

 _Uh, Sister? I don't understand this store._

 _Don't you go loopy on me, Bette. You've been doing well for a while now._

 _I'm not but why are the crackers way over on the other side?_

 _Oh. I don't know why but . . . oh look, a two for one sale!_

 _Focus, sister._

 _Don't get snippy with me now._

 _I'm sorry. That couch of theirs is just unpleasant to sleep on._

* * *

It was also packed . . .

"Excuse me, are you . . . are you the women from the radio? The Siamese twins?"

. . . with people they had never seen before.

 _But that was months ago, Sister. Almost a year._

 _Well, we do make an impression, Bette._

 _Oh hush._

"Oh, uh, well, yes."

And importantly . . .

"Wow. Oh my god, I remember that. Like, I can't believe you're really, really _here_. I heard you on the radio and I didn't know if you were really, like, _real_ -"

. . . people who had never seen them.

"Can I have your autograph?"

"Us?"

"Yeah!"

 _Uhhh, Sister?_

"Well, uh, we don't have a p-"

"You know, you sounded younger over the radio."

"I beg your pardon?"

 _No, she means we sound younger than we are._

 _I'm not sure I see the difference._

 _It's a compliment, Dot._

 _If you say so, Bette._

"And this is . . ."

"Our grandson, yes. We're watching after him while his parents are . . ."

". . . resting."

The grocery shopper's eyes were so wide now she looked almost comical.

"You mean you had _kids_?"

"Yes, that is conventionally how one eventually attains a grandchild."

 _Sister-_

 _Did you sleep on that couch last night, Dot?_

 _Well, yes-_

"You know, I always wondered if it would be hard to walk with someone else halfway in control-"

 _It's hard to walk while you're blocking our way-_

 _Now you're starting to sound like Mama Harper-_

 _Now_ there's _a woman who knew how to clear a path-_

 _Okay, time to go._

 _Yes, let's._

"Well, it has been just a _delight_ to talk to you-"

"But we must be going now."

And they buggied away as quickly as manners would . . .

"Little Jimmy, what are you doing?"

"Sugar."

"Where did you get those Sweet N' Low packets?"

"Shelf."

"But why are you dumping them out of the box into the buggy?"

. . . allow.

* * *

 _What do we need next?_

 _Milk._

 _Ah yes._

 _Let's not put it in Little Jimmy's reach._

 _No._

People stared.

People _always_ stared.

People had been staring at them for going on nearly seventy years now.

Or however long after their birth their mother had let them be seen.

And so Bette and Dot Tattler Darling Walker had to keep on going, step after step.

Ignoring them as best as possible.

If they were ever going to get to the dairy section and procure their . . .

"Excuse me."

"Pardon us."

"Excuse me."

 _Can't we just run into them with the cart if they won't move out of the way?_

 _No, Sister. The last thing we need is to call Jimmy from jail._

. . . damn milk.

* * *

Finally they had everything they needed.

And it really hadn't taken too long.

Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops.

Mostly spending maneuvering through an unfamiliar store.

 _When will retailers learn to put the candy and the potato chips on the same aisle as the feminine monthly products, Dot?_

 _Don't kook out on me now, Bette. We're almost done._

 _I think it's a perfectly reasonable question-_

And unfamiliar . . .

"Hello, we'd like to check out, please?"

. . . people.

"Alrighty, we-"

And the stares.

 _It's milk and oats and crackers, kid._

 _Not a bomb._

 _Unless Jimmy makes another mess, no._

"Uhhh . . . we . . . uhhh . . ."

 _Oh Lord, I wish we could just check out our own groceries, Sister!_

"Would you excuse me for a moment?"

 _Sigh._

* * *

And the kid did come back.

With a much older man.

The store manager, by the look of him.

Thin and stern, by the look of him.

 _Oh look, Sister, another gawker._

 _I just want to pay for this and GO!_

And the crowd was gathering.

Leaving Bette and Dot and their de-lobstered grandson outnumbered.

"Good morning, Mrs . . .?

Dot drew herself up proudly, bringing Bette with her.

"Dot and Bette Walker."

The man nodded sagely.

"Mrs. Walker, yes, I see. Ahem."

Smile thin and joyless.

"What can I do for you ladies today?"

 _I swear to g-_

 _Hold on, Sister-_

"We'd like to pay for these groceries, please," Bette attempted, as charmingly as possible. "We have money."

The man adjusted his watch awkwardly.

"Ah yes. I see. Do you, uh, live in this area, ladies?"

Pushed up his horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

"No. We're just visiting a family member."

Perused the child and his Sweet 'N Low packets.

"Ah. So you do not plan on, uh, patroning our store on a regular basis then?"

The question was quiet. And pointed. Like a dagger.

 _Oh, buddy, have_ you _picked the wrong day-_

"No," Dot replied as airily as possible. "In fact, when you allow us to pay for these groceries and go, please be rest assured-"

 _Sister, careful-_

 _I am in control, Elizabeth._

". . . you will never see us in this particular store _again_."

Despite the fire in their eyes and the muted poison dripping from Dot's tongue, the store manager retained his cool exterior.

"Very well. Manny, please check out these ladies' groceries. And walk them to their car."

"That will not be necessary," Bette flamed, glowering. "We will take our _own_ groceries to the car, thank you. We are perfectly capable."

He held her burning gaze for a moment longer than she had expected him to.

"Very well then. Thank you for your patronage. Good day, ladies."

 _Kiss my undercarriage, you pretentious snob._

 _Sister-_

 _Hush._

* * *

And they went.

With nary a tear shed.

"Oh look at that pretty bird, Jimmy-"

"Isn't it lovely?"

At least where anyone could see.

"Bird flew away."

"Well, it's probably because you threw a Sweet 'N Low packet at it, darling."

 _He should have thrown them at the store manager._

 _Now, now, Bette, we do not encourage aggression in our grandson. But yes, he should have._

 _Ready to go home now, Sister?_

 _Yes. But let's nurse our daughter and son-in-law back to health first._

 _Alright._

* * *

 **So not as bad as it could have been.**

 **But certainly not what they deserved.**

 **Which was decent human respect.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 for reviewing the previous chapter. You rock, Darling. :)**


	91. Back To It Then

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Back To It Then

* * *

Dot and Bette did make it home safely with Little Jimmy, his Sweet 'N Low, and their groceries in tow.

Patrick actually met them at the door . . .

"Hi, how did it - are you okay?"

. . . looking slightly less peaked than he had before.

"Yes, darling, of course," Bette replied, wiping her eyes again. "Just tired, is all. And we've been worried about you. How's Annabel?"

Peering Patrick peepers.

Not quite believing her poor lie.

Would probably come back up later when he was stronger.

But for now . . .

"She's . . . fine. I mean, still sick but, you know . . ."

And they did.

Sometimes the world just kept turning whether you particularly asked it to or not.

"Yes, we know, darling. Can you stomach some more crackers and ginger ale?"

* * *

And when Annabel got better and Patrick got better and they got really, really better altogether . . .

"Thank you so much, Moms. I love you."

"Yes, thank you so much."

"You're welcome, darlings."

"Don't go eating dirty at the seven-eleven anymore."

"Alright."

. . . they eventually . . .

"Goodbye, darling!"

"'Bye, Ma-Da! 'Bye, Ma-Ba!"

"We love you!"

"I louve you too."

. . . went home.

"Hey, girls!"

And fell into . . .

"Oh, Jimmy!"

"We missed you!"

. . . the hook-handed arms of their darling husband.

"I missed you girls too . . . hey, you okay?"

Twins embrace squeezing him tighter.

"We are now, darling."

"Yes, we are."

* * *

And down in Sarasota, for a while thereafter anyway, Annabel and her boys just sort of maintained.

"Hey, this shirt fits again."

"Yeah."

With little changes here and there.

"That's nice."

"Yeah."

And nothing really life-changing around the corner.

"Uh, Patrick?"

Or so they thought.

"Is this bankbook up-to-date?"

"Yes. I've been clipping coupons during Sesame Street and using them when we go out but . . ."

But life, as Annabel had once been fond of saying to her Colorado Night Shift listeners . . .

"Yeah."

. . . wasn't all sparkling rainbows and unicorn butts.

"Well, we knew this was going to be temporary."

. . . they realized that money was . . . well, not as _money_ as they had hoped it would be.

Patrick Pause.

"Yeah."

Clearing of the Annabel throat.

"I mean, the backup we saved in Brandon will still last a while but . . ."

Silent Patrick.

"I mean, what do you think, Patrick? Maybe we should . . ."

"Oh. Yeah."

* * *

"Hey, there's my boys! How was your day?"

"Good, good."

"Did you have time to check the paper for jobs?"

"Oh. Um. No."

"Cool."

* * *

"Hey, there's my boys! How was your day?"

"Good. Jimmy, want to count Mommy's fingers?"

"1, 4, 2 -"

"Well, we're working on it."

"Cool. Did you check the paper for jobs?"

"Oh. Um. No."

"Cool."

* * *

"Hey, there's my boys! How was your day?"

"Good. Jimmy, what color is Mommy's shirt?"

"Bue."

"And what color is my shirt?"

"Geen."

"And what color is your shirt?"

"Oange."

"What a smart boy! High-five! And what a good daddy too! Kiss?"

"Ooh! Need to pee! Be right back!"

"So, did you see any job openings today?"

"Um, no. We were making waffles."

". . ."

"And practicing our colors."

". . . Cool."

* * *

"Hey, there's my boys! How was your day?"

"Good. We went for a drive after nap."

"Cool. Did you see any help wanted signs?"

"Oh. Uh. I forgot to look."

"Patrick-"

"I know. I'm sorry."

* * *

"How's the job search coming, Patrick?"

Awkward silence.

"Oh. Uh. Well . . ."

They were sitting at the kitchen table.

Cramped and sweaty since the landlord hadn't gotten around to fixing the ceiling fan in the living room yet.

And Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson was a nearly twenty-seven year old working woman . . .

"Patrick-"

. . . with plans for her future.

He stopped stuttering. Looked at her guiltily.

"Listen, I don't ever care if we're rich or anything. But I would like to get a bigger place, maybe one with an extra bedroom or something one day. We gotta work together to do that. I need your help."

His expression was quietly despondent.

"I thought I _was_ helping."

Eyes trained on his son as he spoke.

"You are. And you'll still have time with The Baby. I promise."

Careful Patrick face, careful Patrick voice.

"Yeah. I know."

* * *

"Good morning, darlings!"

"Hey, Moms!"

"Good drive up?"

"Yes."

"Ma-Da!"

"Darling!"

"Ma-Ba!"

"Darling!"

"Granddaddy!"

"Hey, Little Man!"

"Who's in the game today, Daddy?"

"Oh, I don't know. Ya know, whoever."

* * *

They were driving by . . .

"Hey, _they're_ hiring."

. . . on the way back from somewhere . . .

"Even though, I mean, it's not like it's a chocolate factory or anything."

. . . when Annabel saw it . . .

"Do you want me to look for that?"

. . . and casually mentioned it.

"No, I'm just joking with you."

"Oh. Okay."

And so after a phone call, an interview, and another phone call . . .

"Welcome to the Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge and Restaurant Complex. My name is Patrick. How may I help you?"

. . . Patrick got his first job in the hospitality industry.

* * *

Evenings.

Which meant he still got to spend days . . .

"Hey, there's my boys! How was your day?"

. . . making his one and only child happy.

"Good! We've been practicing writing our names. See?"

"Wow, good job, Jimmy!"

And late afternoons and early evenings making his wife financially happy.

"Aren't you going to be too tired after staying up with Jimmy all day and working late?"

"No. I get off at eleven. I can be at home in bed by midnight. He gets up at seven. And I can sleep during his nap."

Semi-pouting Annabel.

"Well, what about _us_?"

Smiling Patrick.

"I've _always_ got energy for that."

Sweet kiss. Teasing caress.

"I've got ten minutes."

"Okay."

* * *

"What about food?"

She didn't mean to be selfish.

"What about it?"

It was only-

"Suppers."

-she just really didn't like to cook.

"Oh. Crockpot. A couple of nights anyway. And leftovers."

And he was better at it than her anyway.

"Oh. Okay. Man, you've really got it all planned out, huh?"

"That's the plan, right?"

"Right."

* * *

What wasn't the plan was Patrick working a weekend when Annabel wanted to take her son to the zoo.

"Maybe next weekend then."

Or some Sundays when they were supposed to go up to see Moms and Daddy.

"Oh, of course, darling. Come up when you can."

"We love you."

"We love you too."

Even though most weekends it worked out.

And sometimes she just went with Jimmy when it didn't.

"Take him some cheesecake, won't you, darling?"

"Okay. Thanks."

* * *

 **Ugh. Real life, huh?**

 **As my husband says, "it be like that sometimes".**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and authumnrose2010 for previously reviewing. You guys rock. :)**


	92. My Little Runaway

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

My Little Runaway

* * *

"Jimmy!"

"Jimmy!"

"James Oliver Anderson, can you hear me?!"

He had been right there.

They had been right there.

They had all been right _there_.

Her and Patrick and Sam and Jimmy.

And then she had gotten up to do . . . _something_ , she couldn't even remember what now.

And Patrick had gone to help her.

And then . . . and then . . . and then . . .

He was just _gone_.

"Jimmy!"

"Jimmy!"

"James Oliver Anderson, can you hear me?!"

At first they had just thought . . .

"Where's Jimmy?"

"Hiding in his bed, maybe? With his LEGOs? He likes to do that."

He wasn't.

And he wasn't in the bathroom on the potty.

Or under the kitchen table.

Or hiding behind the sofa.

He wasn't _anywhere_.

And then they had seen _him_.

Scruffy Sam the Sublime.

Sitting by the kitchen door.

Whining and sniffing.

And nosing at the door as though he wished he had thumbs on his paws to open it.

And they'd started to panic.

"Maybe he's outside?"

He wasn't.

He wasn't in either car.

He wasn't in the hedges.

He wasn't checking the mailbox for Santa.

He just . . . _wasn't_.

And they . . .

"Do you see him?!"

"No. Do you?!"

"If I did would I be _asking_ you?!"

No response.

Insults and sarcasms were of no importance or significance.

Because their child was _gone_.

"Jimmy!"

"Jimmy!"

"James Oliver Anderson, can you hear me?"

* * *

It was just like one of her crazy, stupid, nightmare visions.

Except it wasn't.

It was real.

It was really, really _real_.

And it was _bad_.

Or could be. Might be.

 _Oh god._

"Jimmy!"

"Jimmy!"

"James Oliver Anderson, can you _hear me_?!"

* * *

And then she saw him.

Jimmy.

Little Jimmy.

Her Little Jimmy.

Her son.

Her child.

Standing there.

By the road.

The _road_.

 _How did he get that far?!_

The cars and the trucks and the motorcycles.

 _They're not even slowing_ down _!_

And the people.

 _But what if they do? What about all those people that kidnap children every_ day _?_

"Jimmy!"

And she _screamed_ his name.

And _sprinted_ at him.

If he moved, if he _moved_ -

If someone stopped, if they _stopped_ -

"Ma!"

And he saw.

Raised his hands to her.

A child.

Lost.

And alone.

Her child.

Her only.

Right there next to the _road_.

And all those _people_.

And she scooped him up in her arms.

Squeezed him so tight-

"Baby-"

-it probably hurt.

"Oh baby-"

And Patrick was there, face a swarming mixture of terror and relief.

"Baby, don't _do_ that-"

And she, shaking, crumpled to the ground, blinded by the blazing sun and her hysterical tears.

There beside the road.

With the cars.

And the people.

They sank together, the three of them.

All puddled up and crying.

At least the parents.

The ones who knew what _could_ have been.

"Baby-"

* * *

Her first instinct was to spank the living _hell_ out of him.

Whale on him until he understood _never ever_ to leave her side again.

 _Ever_.

Scream and yell and shake and rage.

Instead, she just gripped him tighter.

Tighter and tighter 'til he -

"Ooo-"

. . . squirmed.

"Jimmy-"

And she relaxed.

Just a little.

And heard her son's little boy-just-this-side-of-baby voice.

"Mama, where Ma-Da house?"

And she stopped.

Drew back.

"What?"

"Ma-Da house gone-"

 _Oh my god._

* * *

They took him home.

Their little baby boy.

Daddy Patrick carried him.

Nearly wrested him from his mother's grasp in his clear desperation to hold him again.

One hand clutching the back of that little angel's blond tow-head.

The other wrapped around that small, fragile waist.

The child, having been off on quite a big adventure all by himself, seemed content to be cradled in his father's arms.

And they went _home_.

* * *

Laundry basket.

There was a laundry basket in the middle of the floor.

Laundry.

She had been putting up laundry.

Stupid socks and underwear and bras and towels.

Stupid, ridiculous laundry that didn't even matter _anyway_.

That she had almost lost her boy over.

"Oh god, I'm going to throw up."

* * *

After that, they installed child safety restraints on all the door knobs.

Which Little Jimmy promptly removed from said doors and brought to them in his sweet little baby chubby hands.

"Here, Daddy."

"Oh. Uh, thank you?"

And then they _drilled_ child safety locks way up high on the doors . . .

"Uh, Patrick? What about me?"

"Stretch."

. . . and even on the ones that didn't need it.

"Babe?"

"Yeah?"

"That's a closet."

"Oh."

* * *

They also _talked_ to the boy.

"Jimmy? Why did you leave without telling us?"

"I go to Ma-Da's house."

A simple, straight-forward answer.

"But Ma-Da lives far away."

He seemed unconvinced.

"No. Ma-Da's house there."

A point.

 _Right there, Mother. Right out that kitchen door._

 _Duh_.

"Jimmy, Ma-Da and Ma-Ba and Granddaddy live a long way away. We can't walk there. We have to drive."

"Drive. Drive to Ma-Da's house."

"Yes. We're going to go this weeken-"

"Drive Ma-Da's house now."

"No. This weeken-"

"Drive Ma-Ba's house _now_."

* * *

"Ma-Da! Ma-Ba!"

"Baby!"

"Darling!"

"Grandaddy!"

"Hey, Little Man!"

* * *

"He did _what_?!"

Ma-Ba was shaking.

Ma-Da was pale.

Daddy was shaking _and_ pale.

"Oh god, what might have _happened_?!"

And Annabel felt worse than ever.

* * *

"They have to move _back_ here!"

"We have to move down _there_!"

"Little Jimmy _needs_ us!"

"He could have _died_!"

"He could have been _injured_!"

"He could have been _taken_!"

"We have to _talk_ to them!"

Throughout the entire onslaught of words, Jimmy their darling, the father of their only child and grandfather of their only _grand_ child, remained silent.

"Jimmy, when they come back-"

"-we _have_ to _talk_ to them!"

Their usually kind, warm voices were unusually strident, shrill.

Hysterical.

Annabel and Patrick would have heard.

If they hadn't taken Scruffy Sam out for a walk.

"Jimmy, _tell_ them-"

"-you've _got_ to _tell_ them-"

Although it _was_ possible they might have heard the couple of blocks away it took for Scruffy Sam to do his doggie business.

The Tattler-Darling-Walker twins were being very . . .

"Ma-Da, too loud. Shh."

"Hush now, my darling Little Jimmy, Ma-Da's just upset."

"No upsep. Shh."

. . . loud.

"We'll tell the new tenant it's not working out-"

"Have Lucy retract the contract-"

"All that matters is that-"

"-they come home where they _belong_!"

And Jimmy their Darling nodded.

 _Yeah, yeah. We gotta do something._

* * *

"Listen, Patrick, Annabel, we've been thinking . . ."

Jimmy in his chair by the window, was starting off slow, trying to make sure his words got all put in the right order.

". . . it's a big transition, movin' an hour away."

Bette and Dot, his dear darlings, perched on the couch, . . .

"Stressful on you and Little Jimmy."

. . . nodding adamantly across from him.

"And, uh, it's important for him to have a close connection with his family, ya know . . ."

Anxious. Tense.

". . . especially after he ran off the way he did."

Hanging on, waiting for him to speak the words . . .

"And, uh, well, we were, well, I was thinkin' . . ."

. . . they had begged him to say.

". . . maybe a little more time with us would be a good thing."

Which he wasn't going to.

"What would you think about reinstitutin' the weekend sleepover?"

Not exactly.

"Ya know, droppin' him off on Friday afternoon . . .

Not the way they wanted.

". . . and pickin' him up Sunday afternoon?"

But in a way . . .

"Maybe every other weekend?"

. . . he felt . . .

"Even spend Sunday afternoon together . . ."

. . . everyone could live with.

". . . like we've been doin.'"

And still lead the lives . . .

"Whaddya think?"

. . . Annabel and Patrick wanted to.

And then he just waited.

Hoping, praying . . .

"Wow, uh, well . . ."

. . . they'd like it.

". . . that actually sounds . . ."

And that Bette and Dot . . .

". . . yeah . . ."

. . . wouldn't kill him for it.

". . . really awesome, Daddy! Are you . . . are you sure?"

At least not while the kids were present and witnessing.

"Yeah. I believe so."

"O-okay. Thanks, Daddy."

Big hug, grateful grin.

Loving response.

 _I love you, Annabel._

* * *

"That is _not_ getting them _closer_ , Jimmy!"

"No, but it's not pushing them farther away either."

"That is _not_ what we talked about!"

"No. But it's better than what it was."

"We talked about-"

" _We_ didn't talk about anything. _You_ talked. _I_ listened. And I knew Annabel wouldn't even _think_ of going for it. And if she _did_ , she'd _hate_ it and _resent_ us. And this was the best thing I could think of that would work for everybody. And keep our family together. Even if not always physically."

Fiery silence.

Jimmy pushed through, unabated as the Sunday evening waned.

"Don't you think I _want_ them here? Don't you think I _want_ that precious little grandson of mine wandering in and out of our house all the live long day just because he's right next door and _can_?"

Continued obstination.

"But Annabel wants the life she has and we've got to let her have it. With a smile. And a hug. And belief. It's the only way to keep her close. Is to let her go and do."

Clenched nearly-identical twin jaws.

Gentle, yet firm Jimmy.

"And you know I'm right."

* * *

 _How_ dare _he?_

 _Not even_ talk _to us about it!_

 _We_ told _him to_ make _her come_ home _!_

 _And then he goes off and concocts some_ other _plan!_

 _Every other_ weekend _?_

 _As if that's enough!_

 _Damn him!_

 _Yes!_

* * *

 _He is right, you know._

 _Yes. I know._

 _And we'll still get time with Little Jimmy._

 _I know._

 _And Annabel and Patrick._

 _I know._

 _Maybe we could even take a trip down to Sarasota sometime. See what all the fuss is about._

 _Yes. We could._

 _Sister? Are you alright?_

 _No._

 _No. Me either. Hold my hand?_

 _I love you, Bette._

 _I love you, Dot._

 _And I love Jimmy, our Big Jimmy._

 _I'm_ not _going to call him that._

 _Oh, can you imagine how he'd strut?_

 _Strut, my ass. He couldn't even bring our_ daughter _home. Our son-in-law. Our_ grandson _._

 _Sister-_

 _I know, I know. Just give me some time._

 _Do you want me to tell him everything's okay?_

 _No. Let him suffer._

 _Bette-_

 _Tomorrow. You can tell him tomorrow. Maybe it will be true._

 _Alri-_

 _Maybe._

* * *

"So, darling, when would you like to bring us that grandson of ours for the weekend?"

"Have a little extra time with just you and Patrick?"

"Oh, um, well, uh . . . is this weekend too early? I know it's already Wednesday but-"

"No, no! We don't mind at all! We kept our calendar open for just such an occasion."

"Now what do you think you and Patrick might get up to during your special weekend?"

"I would say 'sex' but I don't want to-"

"Good for you, darling!"

"Uh, yeah . . ."

* * *

 **Happy New Year, everyone!**

 **And yeah, careful with your kids, okay? When my youngest was two, he just decided to go out the garage door and made it almost to the street in our little cove neighborhood.**

 **And yes, since you ask, he also took all the child safety locks off all the doors in our house and brought them to us. Repeatedly.**

 **So, yeah, watch 'em. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing before. :)**


	93. From Here to There

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

From Here to There

* * *

1989

It was the year George H. W. Bush became President.

"Oh. Well. This should be interesting."

 _His wife looks like Mrs. Irving down the street._

 _Ooh, let's take her a pie!_

The Stockton massacre.

"Did his name _have_ to be Patrick? Come _on_."

The '49ers beat the Bengals in the Super Bowl.

 _Don't you think we're getting too old to be having a Super Bowl party?_

 _I do_ not _, Sister, thank you very much. Now let's start making dip!_

The execution of Ted Bundy.

"'Bye, by, psycho. Hey, Patrick, we should have a party to celebrate."

The first woman bishop.

"Alright, Morning Cuppa listeners, let's chat about that, shall we? Women. We're happening!"

The first of twenty-four global satellites launched into orbit around the world.

"What do you think they're doing up there?"

" _Watchin_ ' us,man."

"How much coffee have you had this morning, Bernie?"

The lowest U.S. unemployment rate in over fifteen years.

"Looks like everybody's gettin' out and earnin', yeah. Way to go, America. Okay, next up . . ."

A ban on grapes and apples.

"So, like, _fruit_ is bad for us now?"

"Okay, guess it's tacos and ice cream forever."

"Oh, I can _totally_ do that."

Another space shuttle mission.

"Mommy, I wanna be a spaceman!"

"Patrick, our son's going to be a spaceman!"

"He can do it! He can do anything!"

More gun control.

"Yeah, like I was gonna need access to an assault weapon in my lifetime anyway."

"I don't know. Have you seen you in traffic?"

Exxon Valdez.

"Oh, those poor _animals_!"

The march on Washington against abortion.

"Why should the government tell me what I can and I can't do with my own body?"

"Well . . . I . . . don't .. . it's a matter of-"

"It's a matter of _not_ the government's body, man!"

The Central Park Jogger.

"Oh my god. People are monsters. I'm staying home today. It's not safe out there."

Disney-MGM Studios.

"Pack up the car, Patrick! We're going to Orlando!"

Oliver North.

"Did you hear about the Iran-Contra Affair?"

"No. Do they live on our street?"

The Los Angeles Teachers' Strike.

"Remember when Annabel's teachers went on strike?"

"Yes. And then poor Martin right after."

The Menendez brothers.

 _Oh my god, Sister, I can't believe it!_

 _Why not, Bette, we killed_ our _mother._

 _That was a long time ago. We're better now._

The War on Drugs.

"You don't think he means, like, weed too, do you?"

"Calm down, Bernie. I don't think President Bush is comin' directly for your smoke."

And so much more they just kind of vaguely let flow around them in pursuit of their own lives.

"What's playing?"

"Hmm, let's see. I'm not sure. For four dollars, whatever it is, it better be good."

It was also the year of Michael Keaton's Batman.

"Okay, now _that_ guy is cool!"

"Jimmy, darling, when did you start saying, 'cool'?'

Dead Poets Society.

 _It's okay, Sister, don't cry._

 _I . . . I . . . they . . ._

Another Indiana Jones movie.

"Hey, Patrick, we gotta go! Remember our first date?"

"Yeah, we walked around for hours and shared fudge."

"Awww . . ."

Honey, I Shrunk The Kids.

"Mommy, look, that dog is huge!"

When Harry Met Sally.

"Hey, Patrick want to have sandwiches for supper?"

"Sure. Why?"

Field of Dreams.

 _I'll never play baseball with my father. Ah hell._

"Jimmy, are you okay?"

Born on the Fourth of July.

 _I know those guys. I remember feeding them sandwiches._

Uncle Buck.

"I can't tell if I hate him or not, Patrick."

"He means well. He cares."

And so many others, that, well, not all of them could _possibly_ be good.

"Is Free-Base Heroin Man in a movie with Froderick Fronkensteen?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Uh, okay.

* * *

Things were 'gnarly' and 'grody' now instead of 'far out' and or a 'drag'.

The neons and sparkly golds were fading out a little . . .

"What is that?"

"A windbreaker."

. . . even though the hair and makeup were just as fabulous and flared as ever.

"It's a what?"

"Word processor."

Powerpoint, Word, and Excel were a new technology thing.

Along with the Nintendo GameBoy.

A gallon of fuel could cost upwards of a whole, entire _dollar_.

While milk could be . . .

"I think we might need to buy a cow."

"Patrick, do I look like a farmer to you?"

"I don't know. I don't know any farmers."

"Think Petticoat Junction."

"Oh. That'd be okay."

"Oh shut up."

. . . two.

The government decided not to raise the minimum wage above three thirty-five per hour, much to the dismay of people . . .

"So, basically, you have to work for almost an hour to be able to afford a gallon of milk? Seriously, let's talk about this, people . . ."

. . . who had bills to pay.

"I mean, come on, I think I'm gonna get taxed for drinking water next. It's _insane_."

And the kid who would eventually grow up to play Harry Potter became one of the five plus billion people in the world.

Even though nobody except his family was probably very interested in him yet.

* * *

And as far as music went . . .

". . . here waiting for you . . ."

. . . Annabel was aswim in a veritable sea of Richard Marx . . .

". . . prayer . . . no one else can take me there . . ."

. . . Madonna . . .

". . . and me, in paradise . . ."

. . . Phil Collins . . .

". . . and you'd stay . . ."

. . . and Cher.

Along with the new and subjectively-opinionated sounds of . . .

". . . rain that is always fallin' . . ."

. . . Milli Vanilli . . .

". . . the jam, pump it up . . ."

. . . Technotronic . . .

". . . bust a move . . ."

. . . and Young MC.

"What was _that_?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know when I figure it out."

Additionally, Bobby Brown declared 'it' was his prerogative.

Chicago looked away.

Poison sang about thorny roses.

Paula Abdul wanted to be straight up told about her partner's long term or not so much long term intentions.

And someone was missed much by Janet Jackson.

People still settled down in front of their televisions at night to watch The Cosby Show.

And the Golden Girls.

Some new show about nothing.

* * *

And it was also the last year Little Jimmy Anderson would be in the sole care and comfort of his loved ones.

"Mommy, Sam wants to go to Toys 'R Us."

"Oh, does he?"

"Yeah. He says he wants a new Ninja Turtles toy."

"'Cause he's such a Donatello fan, right?"

"Raphael."

"Uh, huh."

Before starting kindergarten.

Patty had an emergency hysterectomy.

 _Oh, poor thing, let's take her a casserole._

 _And a pie._

While George's new wife had their baby.

"Oh my god, he's forty-three! That's so _old_!"

"I'll be forty-three one day."

"In nine _years_ , Patrick! And I'll be thirty- _eight_! And I _won't_ be having a baby at that time either."

"You never know."

". . ."

It was the year Patrick, Mr. We-Don't-Know-Annabel-We-Might-Be-Having-A-Baby-When-We're-Old, got a chance to take training courses in hotel management.

And Annabel, Radio-DJ-And-Woman-Who-Once-Saw-Bowie-At-A-Seven-Eleven-I-Swear, found them a bigger house to rent.

"But what are we going to do with all this extra space?"

Three whole bedrooms and two baths . . .

"I'm not risking getting sick again with only one bathroom, Patrick. We are moving up in the world in regard to central plumbing, baby."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right."

. . . as well as a double carport.

And a chain-link . . .

"Okay, Sam. Go crazy."

. . . fence.

It was the year Annabel bought Patrick a second-hand Yamaha XT250 motorcycle.

"Look at us, darling!"

"We're finally motorcycle _mamas_!"

And promptly started taking his various family members . . .

"Faster, Patrick!"

"Come on, darling, we only live once!"

. . . for easy, non hot-rodding . . .

 _I wonder what happened to my bike. I forgot all about that. She was a real sweet ride. Huh._

. . . rides up and down their residential streets.

So many good things.

"- Daddy, see?! Mommy, look!"

"We see you, Jimmy!"

"You're riding your bike all by yourself!"

And, as life goes . . .

"Oh, dear, Reagan's having brain surgery!"

. . . sometimes not so good things.

"No! Oh my, I wonder if not being president anymore did it to him."

But all in all, it was . . .

"Hey, Daddy!"

. . . just life . . .

"Little Jimmy's lost his first baby tooth!"

. . . as life . . .

"Hey, that's great Annabel! You gonna save 'em?"

. . . had always . . .

"What?"

. . . been.

* * *

Which would be . . .

"Jimmy? Where is Paul?"

. . . the last time . . .

"Who?"

. . . it would be . . .

"You know, the little English man with the finger-arms?"

. . . for the Walkers and the Andersons . . .

"Uh, Bette-"

. . . maybe . . .

"Sister?"

. . . forever.

* * *

 **Okay, so this is just a littler fun chapter to bridge the span between the previous story arc and this final story arc we will be beginning next.**

 **Yep, you heard me,** **gentle readers. And it's gonna be total AHS, believe you me. (We say that here; do you?)**

 **Additionally, the bike Patrick got is the same bike John Rambo stole in the first movie. Which by the way if you look the scene up on YouTube is where they got the Bucky steals the bike scene in Captain America: Civil War and i still haven't recovered from that little joy-gasm today. Please somebody ask Sebastian Stan if he knows. He must, he simply must.**

 **Uh . . . where was I?**

 **Ah yes!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing! :D**


	94. My Precious Darlings

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

My Precious Darlings

* * *

"-monds blank forever . . . are . . . okay . . ."

"-tinent you visit if you want to see the Taj Mahal . . . hmmm . . . India . . ."

It wasn't that Dot _minded_ her conjoined twin sister's new hobby.

"Caspian or Caribbean . . . Seas . . ."

It was that Bette so frequently concentrated _aloud_.

"Dot, do you know the answer to this one? 'Blank was I 'ere I saw Elba'? It's a . . . palindrome."

"Able."

"How did you know that?"

"A palindrome is spelled the same backwards and forwards, Bette."

"Oh."

Or worse yet . . .

"Jimmy, do you know the answer to this one? Detroit's nickname. Blank city."

Or worse yet yet . . .

"I don't know, Bette. Dot, what do you think?"

 _I think I need some quiet time from you two._

"Motor."

"Now how did you know that, Sister?"

"You fell asleep while Annabel was making us watch that Spinal thing movie."

"Oh, it was so _confusing_. I told you, I don't care for documentaries."

"Annabel said it wasn't-"

"Okay, what is the capital of Norway?"

Dot found herself switching to silent communications as Jimmy continued staring at the newspaper crossword Bette had directed them _all_ to in lieu of, well, almost anything else.

 _Bette, why don't we take a break and read a nice, quiet_ book _?_

 _They say crossword puzzles are good for the memory._

 _Not if you don't live long enough to remember me killing you._

 _What?_

 _Hush, I'm tired. And my jaw hurts._

 _Sister, are you okay?_

 _Yes. I just . . . I just haven't been feeling myself lately._

* * *

Bette also was becoming increasing involved in . . .

"What is Minnesota?!"

"What is Nicholson?!"

"What is . . . what is . . ."

 _Peso_.

 _Don't tell me, Sister! I need to get it by myself!_

. . . Jeopardy in the afternoons on ABC.

 _Oh, that Alex Trebek. He's so handsome._

 _I thought you watched this for the memory._

 _I do-_

"Ooh, what is . . . what is . . . oh darn it, treble f?"

 _Did you know that answer, Dot?_

 _Yes._

 _Well, why didn't you tell me?!_

 _You told me not to._

 _Argh . . ._

* * *

"Okay, glasses, I'm going to leave you right here on the dresser. I'll pick you up in the morning, you sweet little things, you."

 _Sister, why are you talking to your reading glasses?_

 _So I'll remember them when I need them in the morning._

 _I'll tell you when you forget. I'm right here, you know._

 _But I need to remember on my_ own _! Do you think I'm not smart enough to remember things on my_ own _, Dorothy Jean?!_

 _Calm down, Elizabeth Ann, calm down. I'm just trying to help._

 _I don't_ need _your help!_

 _Alright, well, stroke your glasses then. I'll wait._

 _I'm_ done _, thank_ you _._

Sometimes, Bette's little tricks worked.

 _Alright, just let me pick my glasses from the dresser-_

And sometimes . . .

 _Why is there an old lady in Annabel's yard?_

 _Because Annabel and Patrick moved to Sarasota two years ago, Bette._

 _Oh. Right._

. . . and sometimes . . .

 _Who's Patrick?_

 _Annabel's husband, Bette._

. . . they didn't.

 _Oh, Patrick. Of course. I love that boy._

 _Yes. Are you alright?_

* * *

Dorothy Jean Tattler Darling Walker _loved_ her conjoined twin sister.

She always had.

Even when she didn't.

And these many, many years of joy . . .

 _Oh, Sister, this baby is so warm and soft against me. I am in love._

 _Me too, Bette._

. . . had been indescribably heavenly.

And the times of distress and discomfort . . .

 _Ouch._

 _Are you alright?_

 _Oh, same old neck pain. You want to take the head tilt for a while, Sister?_

 _I would if I could, Bette._

. . . they had weathered together . . .

 _I know. I love you._

 _I love you too._

. . . as best they could.

But more and more lately . . .

 _Jimmy needs to be leaving for the store soon, Dot._

 _Jimmy's retired, Sister. The store's closed._

 _Oh. Yes. I remember now._

. . . Bette's slips in memory were getting harder and harder to cover up.

"Jimmy, don't you need to get going to the store soon?"

"Not without my Delorean, Bette. You okay?"

And Dot . . .

"Sure, darling. "

. . . was getting more and more . . .

"Why?"

. . . concerned.

"No reason."

* * *

 _Sister, are you awake? Bette?_

 _Snore._

"Jimmy?"

Her hand on his forearm, just above the stump, stirred him.

"Dot?"

"Hey, Jimmy. I'm sorry to wake you up-"

"No, no. It's okay."

He turned to her, nuzzling his face to hers.

Gentle, sweet kisses.

Keeping his stump carefully on her side of the shared body.

Here in the dark, and if she closed her eyes in the daytime, she could see them all.

Still young.

Still dark of hair and firm of skin.

Still lithe and lively.

All the ways they used to be.

Sometimes when she caught a glance of herself in the mirror or took notice of her wrinkled, age-marked hand, she was momentarily taken aback.

 _When did I get so old? I still feel young._

Young.

When they had escaped their mother's clutches, albeit through their first murder.

 _I'm sorry, Momma. But we were crazy. You'd made us crazy. We'd made ourselves crazy._

Aside from that poor frog.

 _Stop it, Bette! You're hurting it!_

 _Make me, Dot._

 _Stop it, stop it!_

 _Hush. Or I'll hit_ you _in the head with a rock._

When they had first come face-to-face with the loathsome Elsa Mars.

 _We were so taken in. Over and over._

As well as their future mother-in-law-had-she-not-been-dead-by-that-time Ethel Darling.

 _I wonder what she would have thought of us the way we are now marrying her Jimmy._

And all the other freaks that summer of 1952.

They were so mystical, in their own way, they were beautiful.

She could still see them, hazy now in her memory.

But she and Jimmy were still bright clear and in full color.

Her and Jimmy and -

"I'm worried. About Bette."

She could feel his neck twist to look over at the further darkness where his sleeping Bette lie, see his love and concern in her mind's eye.

"Is she alright?"

Dot nodded, hoping it was true.

"Yes. Right now anyway."

A pause.

She didn't want to tell her sister's secret.

Didn't want to betray her.

"What do you mean?"

But she needed to take care of her sister.

And herself.

 _I love you, Bette. But I've been dreaming nightmares of being attached to a screaming, babbling, incoherent vegetable for the rest of my life. And it . . ._

"Bette's memory is slipping. She tries to hide it. But I'm worried it's getting worse."

 _. . . scares me._

"Yeah," Jimmy's voice sounded somber. "I've noticed that too. I wasn't sure if it was just getting older or . . ."

They didn't want to say it.

Couldn't say it.

Not here in the dark.

Not yet.

"I want to help her," Dot confessed. "Take care of us both. But I don't know how."

How.

How to help and assist conjoined twins.

Safe from prying eyes and craning necks.

Safe from people who would whisper and snipe and mock.

Safe from the world.

Safe.

Who could help? Who could they turn to who could do, who knew anything at all?

Who would be safe, trusted?

And he just didn't know.

"I'll think of something, Dot. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of you both. I promise."

"Thank you, Jimmy Darling. I love you."

And he nuzzled back in, more comforting than sexual.

"I love you too, Dot. And Bette."

"Yes."

And he did not let them go.

"Always."

Not for a while.

* * *

 _What do I do?_

Jimmy lay awake for a while, listening to her breathe.

Them both breathe.

His wives, his companions.

His constants.

Thirty years plus now.

He had always wanted to protect them, keep them safe.

When he had loved them.

And when he had thought he loved someone else.

And when he couldn't think at all.

He had always cared about their well-being.

And then his hands had been cut off by his own naivete and stupidity.

And he had thought he could never protect anyone or himself ever again.

Then his freak family had all died, except Desiree and Bette and Dot.

And he had still thought, with the exception of the Glorious Drowning of The Dickweed Dandy Mott, that he was powerless to stand up to anyone or do any good for himself or others in the world.

Bette and Dot had proved him wrong.

A little at a time.

One act at a time.

One day at a time.

One month at a time.

One year at a time.

They had loved him, mind and soul.

And then later, after a little convincing, mind and body and soul.

And oh, how he had loved them.

Them in all of their ways, their unusual-ness, their just-like-everyone-else-ness.

Their them-ness.

And he had tried to provide.

He'd had his missteps, his slip-ups.

His downright failures.

But they had loved him and he had loved them.

And they had done alright, he figured.

He'd even gotten to be a father.

A _real_ father.

The one he'd always wanted.

The one he'd always dreamed of.

And his daughter, his Annabel, she was _amazing_.

Wonderful and smart and tough and gentle.

Not perfect, no.

But pretty darn, as far as he was concerned.

She'd found someone like her, an outsider. Someone just as caring and loving and loyal and kind as he'd always hoped for her.

And that boy had loved her.

And them.

Which honestly, was pretty damn amazing.

And they had a child themselves, the most beautiful little boy the world had ever _seen_ (unless they had a second, of course).

And they were all doing fine, just fine.

Except they weren't.

They were getting older.

Slower.

And sicker.

All of them.

He and his darlings anyway.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do . . .

 _What do I do now, Ma?_

. . . about it.

* * *

He got up then.

Right then and there.

Crept from the room.

Edged the door, closed it as quietly as he could.

And made a phone call in the dead of night.

Pencil clenched between his teeth, the only way he and his stumps could manage the dial.

As he squinted at the number written on the paper on the wall.

"Hello?"

Sleepy voice, mumbled words.

"Lucy? It's Jimmy. Jimmy Da- Walker."

And just like that, instant alertness.

"Jimmy! What is it, what's wrong?"

Three a.m. phone calls. They had that effect.

"I'm sorry to worry you but . . . Dot and I are worried about Bette."

Lucy The Friend dropped out of the conversation immediately.

And Brandon's first female EMT smoothly and calmly took over.

"Tell me everything, Jimmy."

 _Man, I love you, Lucy._

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing before!**


	95. What They Said

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

What They Said

* * *

She arrived first thing in the morning.

As they had agreed upon.

Her and Jimmy.

And Bette and Dot Tattler Darling Walker turned their gazes first upon her.

"Lucy, darling! What a surprise to see you here!"

"How are you? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I'm well. I'm here for you, Bette."

And then they turned their eyes to Jimmy.

Well, Bette's did.

"Jimmy?"

Dot's flickered guiltily between her sister and her husband and their friend.

Bette did not miss it.

"Dot?"

And then they all sat down.

* * *

First she examined Bette.

Pulse. Blood pressure.

Checked her eyes with a light.

"You may as well add 'blind' to whatever list of symptoms my husband and sister have concocted for you."

Hearing.

"-pping! I can hear fine, we listen to Annabel on the radio every day!"

Ear, nose, and throat.

"-want to cough in your eyeballs, Lucy, but you're making my throat tickle-"

Reflexes.

"Ouch, what'd you do that for?"

And, of course, asked questions.

"Do you know your name?"

"Elizabeth Ann Walker."

"Do you know the year?"

"1989."

"Do you know who the president is?"

"The actor that was in those spaghetti westerns. Reagan. No, there's a new one. Um, shrub?"

And more questions.

"Do you ever look around and not know where you are?"

And more questions.

"Do you ever feel confused and lost and it makes you feel unusually angry?"

And more questions.

"Do you ever have trouble making decisions that were once easy?"

* * *

And Bette, tears dotting her cheeks, first tried to trivialize.

"Well, of course, but, goodness, haven't we all felt that?"

Then redirect.

"I don't know why you are asking me all these stupid _questions_ instead of talking about about Annabel and The Baby and . . . and . . ."

"Patrick?"

"Yes, Patrick! I know his _name_ , Sister! I'm just very distracted by all these _questions_!"

And, of course, argue.

"You seem very angry, Bette."

"This _conversation_ is making me angry right now."

Only to have her interrogator dare to respond calmly.

"Why?"

To which she could not clearly . . .

"Because . . . because . . . well, I'm perfectly fine and you haven't even touched your coffee yet!"

. . . and rationally reply.

And finally, Lucy stood up.

"Alright. Let's take a break. Bette, try to calm down. I am your friend. I'm here to help you. I'll step from the room for a moment to allow you to decompress."

And of course, because Dot could not follow her from the room, Jimmy did.

"Lucy?" he whispered, hoping Bette and Dot were having one of their silent communications that sometimes made him feel lost because they tended to space out and leave him behind. "What's wrong with her?'

Lucy turned to Jimmy.

The calm composure, the strong gaze.

The woman once so unsure and afraid, now so confident and capable.

"How long has Dot been experiencing shortness of breath?"

Jimmy Darling Walker looked momentarily confused.

"What? Who?"

And Lucy was not to be moved.

"Dot. How long has she been experiencing. . ."

* * *

". . . shortness of breath?"

Dot blinked.

"Oh, uh, sometimes. It comes and goes. All this humidity. Why?"

"I'd like to examine you."

"Pardon?"

* * *

"Pulse. 96."

"Is that good?"

"Blood pressure. 162 over 103."

"Is that good?"

"Have you been eating regularly?"

"Yes, we-"

"No. You."

"Well, um, I actually-"

"She just moves her food around on her plate," Bette interrupted, face worried and pinched. "She says she's not hungry but we share a stomach and _I_ feel hungry."

"That doesn't mean we all have to eat cheesecake like the world's ending just because _you_ do, Bette!"

"Dot-" Jimmy started.

She silenced him with a glare.

And Lucy remained focused.

"Do you ever get dizzy? Nauseated? Anxious?"

"I'm feeling pretty anxious about this _conversation_ right now-"

"Dot."

"Yes," she grumbled defeatedly. "All three."

"Tired? Upset stomach? Pressure in your chest or stomach?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you ever sweat?"

"It's Florida. It's what we _do_."

"Alright. More than _normal_."

"Since we went through menopause and live in Flori-"

 _Ouch, what did you_ pinch _me for, Bette?_

 _Answer the question, Sister. Or I'll pinch you again._

"Yes. Sometimes."

"Have you ever had chest pain, jaw pain, or tingling in your arms that you couldn't get rid of?"

"Jaw, yes. Chest and arms, no."

* * *

"Bette, Dot, I'd like you to make an appointment with a doctor as soon as possible."

They answered at once, hardly a blink between their voices.

"No."

Lucy looked stern.

"Bette, you are suffering memory loss and confusion. There are medications and treatments available for you that might slow the advance of what you may have."

"And what may I have, Ms. Not-A- _Doctor_?"

Ms. Not-A-Doctor continued on, unabated.

"Dot, your pulse is up, your blood pressure is up-"

"Of _course_ my blood pressure is up, Lucy. You show up on my doorstep at breakfast and to say there is something is wrong with _me_. _I_ am _fine_. I am more concerned with-"

"Bette, yes. I agree. Her condition is a concern. But we need to care for you as well. You need to go to a doctor, a real doctor. Get blood tests, x-rays, the a complete workup so that-"

"No."

Lucy seemed to take this complete and utter rejection with a grain of salt.

"Bette, Dot, your individual problems are only going to get worse. And affect the other of you. You need to . . ."

But the conjoined twins, unified forever in body, were now also unified in mind.

"No."

Then Lucy turned to Jimmy.

Jimmy, who already knew and understood exactly what his wives were driving at.

What they were . . .

 _Oh girls, please . . ._

. . . thinking, having known them for so long.

"Jimmy, they must receive treatment. I-"

"Lucille Mary Barrett, look at us."

It was Dot that spoke, spoke for them both.

As they held hands.

And spoke to two of their loved ones.

Quietly. Calmly Firmly.

And with finality.

"We will not go to any doctor. We will not allow it. We will live our lives as much as we can, everyday. We will take care of each other and our Jimmy. Our Annabel and Patrick and Little Jimmy. Our friends."

Dot paused for breath and Bette took up the thread for her.

"And when there is no more life for us to live and our end is come and we must, we will die."

Jimmy, dark eyes filling with tears, looked away.

Out the window.

To a cold and dark and lonely world devoid of his wives.

One day.

As Lucy, Brandon, Florida's first woman Emergency Medical Technician and friend to the Walker family would had first saved, then given back, her life, flinched.

"Dot. Bette. It doesn't have to be this way."

Dot smiled gently. Bette followed, taking her sister's hand.

And Dot spoke again.

"Yes. It does. We will not be made spectacles, medical curiosities. We will not be stared at, gawked at. Poked and prodded and studied. We are women."

Bette now, seamlessly.

"We are wives, mothers, grandmothers, friends. Bakers, gardeners, dreamers. Drivers, adventurers, radio-personalities. We are not things. We are not freaks. We are simply, us."

* * *

And that . . .

"Please call me if anything happens, alright? If they change their minds. Or, if it comes down to it, after you call the ambulance."

. . . was the end of it.

Jimmy nodded numbly. Lucy continued.

"And remember to take care of yourself, Jimmy. If you're not in good condition, you can't take care of them either."

Jimmy nodded again, wishing he had more than stumps to care for his darling wives.

"Will you tell Annabel?"

He clenched his jaw.

"If they'll let me."

Lucy nodded.

"She needs to know so she's prepared. It will be much harder on her if she's not."

And then, with a hug and a kiss on the cheek for each of the three of them . . .

"I understand why; I really do. I just hope you reconsider."

. . . she said goodbye.

"We love you, Lucy."

"I love you girls too. And you, Jimmy. You are the best friends I have ever had."

And took her leave.

* * *

They were in the living room when she said it.

Later that night, that very same damn day.

Watching something on the TV.

Something stupid and pointless, he was sure.

"When we die-"

A sudden slap in the face would have been less of a strike.

"What?! What the _hell_ , Dot-"

Dot and Bette, however, were calm.

"Hush and listen, Jimmy Darling. And listen. When we die, don't let them make freaks of us."

Darning lowered and still in their lap.

"We don't want to be studied and poked and prodded and cut apart and examined."

Their dark, depthless eyes direct.

"It would shame us. It would shame you."

And unwavering.

"And Annabel. She's been through enough on our behalf."

Jimmy shook his head in denial.

"Bette, she loves you two-"

A lovely smile from Dot as she spoke.

"Yes, we know."

And now, Bette.

"We love her as well."

And together.

"So much."

Pulling down into solemn frowns.

"But to know her mothers were on display somewhere like freaks would hurt her badly, we think."

Yet voices still, _still_ without hesitation.

"And we don't want to be oddities and freaks anymore."

Jimmy stared at them uncomprehendingly.

"What are you _sayin'_ , Dot?"

As if he didn't know.

"I'm saying we want you to take care of it., Jimmy. Take care of us. One last time."

Jimmy floundered.

"When? How?"

Because they had to _say_ it.

"When the time comes. However you can. However you must."

He sat, stumbling and fumbling, mouth tasting sick.

Stomach churning. Brain stuttering and stammering.

And then they hit him with another one-two punch.

"And if one of us goes first, don't leave the other of us alone."

His eyes were in danger of dropping from his head.

" _What?_ "

The sisters clenched their jaws, a fraction of a second apart.

And it was Dot again who spoke.

"Don't leave us alone with our dead sister. Help us. We can't go on without each other. Literally. Please do what you must to help the other pass on quickly, painlessly."

Jimmy thought he thought he himself might fall dead from the conversation.

"Dot . . . Bette . . . I can't . . ."

"Do you love us, Jimmy Darling?"

He nodded, heart hammering, body quaking.

"More than anything. You know that."

And Bette nodded.

"Then promise us. Promise us you won't run away when the time comes. The one that is left will be scared, grieving, maybe confused and in pain. Do what you have to do to stop our suffering."

As Dot implored him.

"Please, Jimmy. Please promise us."

And of course, Bette.

"Don't leave us alone with our dead sister. Please help us die."

He looked from one to the other, feeling them alien more than he could ever remember in their lives.

"How can you _talk_ about this? It's so . . . terrible. It's so horrible. It's . . ."

Sad, slightly bemused smiles.

"It's part of our _reality_ , Jimmy. It's part of our _future_. It's part of our _life_."

Because it was the truth.

"And death."

More true than anything else could possibly be.

"Please promise us."

He looked from one to the other, unable to fully process what his beloved wives were so plainly telling him.

 _It's madness, it's crazy, it's . . ._

 _It's real for them. And for me._

He heard himself speaking the words, felt his soul crack at the promise.

"Okay. If that's what you want. I promise."

But his darling wives weren't done with him. Not quite yet.

"And keep Annabel out of it. We don't want her to bear the weight of responsibility of it."

 _What about me?_ Jimmy wanted to ask selfishly. _What about me bearing the weight of killing my wives?_

But he understood. The things he had done in his life, the things his wives were now requesting he do in the future. Annabel need not suffer the burden.

Dot and Bette drew a deep breath together. Let it out separately.

And nodded.

And then, unbelievably more so, they picked up the cloth and implements in their hands.

And resumed darning his socks.

As if nothing . . .

 _\- the goddamn_ hell _?_

. . . had happened.

* * *

 **Well, that's Bette and Dot for you.**

 **And Jimmy.**

 **How are you doing out there, gentle readers?**

 **Particularly midnightrebellion86, autumnrose2010, and brigid1318 for reviewing previously! :)**


	96. The Last Day

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Last Day

* * *

Every day is the last day for something.

"Good morning, darling!"

"Good morning, girls!"

"Coffee?"

"Thank you."

Every Halloween.

"Oooh, what a scary little . . .?"

"Optimus Prime, Ma-Ba."

"Opt-timus . . . Prime."

"Of course. What is an Optimus Prime?"

Every Thanksgiving.

"-ve the turkey?"

"Yeah, sure. Ya know, I really should get outfitted for some turkey-carvin' tools, whaddya think?"

"Oh my god, Daddy, that'd be so _insane_!"

"Yeah . . . is that a good thing?"

Every Christmas.

"-sweater, Patrick! What do you think?"

"It's, uh, it's, uh . . . nice. Very warm."

"We've got one for you too, Annabel! We made one for everybody!"

"Oh, gee, uh, thanks."

"Well, aren't you going to try it on?"

"Oh, uh . . ."

Every New Year's.

"- _ninety_ , can you believe it?!"

"Not in a million years."

"I mean, only ten years left in the whole century, man!"

"In the whole _millennium_."

"Oh my gosh, you're right!"

Every quiet conversation.

"-alright, Ma-Da? You're, like, breathing funny."

"Of course, I'm fine, darling. All this humidity, you know?"

"Darling, run back next door and let me know if you have raisins, would you?"

"I don't live there anymore, Ma-Ba. We live in Sarasota now."

"Oh, yes. I know, darling."

Every shouted exclamation.

"Yes!"

 _Did you see that touchdown?! We're going to kick your butts, Dot!_

 _The game's not over yet, Bette!_

 _Why don't you ever root for the same Super Bowl team as me?_

 _Just to egg you on. We all have to have our own hobbies, darling._

Every Valentine's.

"-the best husband we could ever imagine, Jimmy! We love you so very much."

"I love you two."

"Why don't you come over here and let us express our . . . appreciation."

"Okay!"

Every Easter.

"-hunt eggs with Little Jimmy?"

"Absolutely, Moms. And actually, Patrick wanted to know if he can help hide."

"Well, of course he can! In fact, he can do it all if he likes."

Every Memorial Day and Fourth of July and Labor Day.

"- much barbecue, but damn, this chicken is good, Patrick."

"Thank you."

"Think we ought use my hooks to make shish-kabobs?"

"Haha, uh . . ."

Every lazy Saturday.

"-til noon and have sex all morning long."

"Well, since you _insist_ , darling."

"But, uh, let me, uh, take a trip to the john first."

"Oh. Alright."

Every family-filled Sunday.

"-for a new position at work!"

"Well, well, way to go, son! They're lucky to have you!"

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

Every trip to the store.

 _-ggs so expensive? There's got to be a better way._

 _I am_ not _roosting chickens at my time of life, Sister._

 _I don't want to roost chickens. I want to buy cheaper eggs!_

Every night out at the movies.

"-and Little Lady might be nice to see."

"Oh, that Tom Selleck, he's just so handsome."

"I don't think he'll be wearing tennis shorts in this one, Sister."

"Who's wearing tennis shorts?"

"No one, darling!"

Every meal eaten.

"-loaf, girls. That was really good."

"Well, thank you, darling."

"It should be. We've been cooking it for thirty years."

 _Thirty years. Oh Sister, am I getting tired of meatloaf._

Every dessert made.

"-berry pie, Mrs. Walkers. My aunt is just going to love it! How do you make the lattice-work so flaky?"

"Sorry, darling, family secret. But you are most welcome. And please do wish her a happy retirement from us."

"I will! Thank you!"

Every night under the stars.

"- so beautiful, isn't it, Jimmy?"

"Yeah, it sure is. But not as beautiful as you girls."

"Oh, Jimmy-"

"You sweet man, you."

Every birthday.

"- Patrick! Happy birthday to you!"

"Okay, make a wish and blow out the candles!"

"Okay. Hey, they came back on."

"Surprise!"

Every anniversary.

"-ses! Oh, Jimmy, you remembered!"

"Of course I remembered. How could I ever forget my two beautiful broads in one body?"

"Oh stop it, you charmer . . ."

 _Oh, I think he can go right on._

 _I think he's about to._

Every kiss.

"-you, darling!"

"I love you girls two."

Every hug.

"-hug your Ma-Da and Ma-Ba!"

"Oooh, too tight! Let go!"

"Not a chance, darling! We'll never let go of you!"

"Ahhhh-"

Every tender embrace.

"-always love you, Annabel."

"I love you too, Moms."

"We're so grateful . . ."

". . . and proud of you, darling-"

"Always remember that."

"I will."

Every argument.

"- cats, Jimmy!"

"I don't know, girls. I don't wanna poison Mrs. Farris' cats. I've been doing really good at not commiting murder for a long time now."

"It's just _cats_ , Jimmy!"

"And we're not even asking you to _drown_ them-"

"Bette-"

Every make-up.

". . . mad, darling. They're just messing up our garden. And they smell."

"I know, I know. Maybe I can go talk to her again."

"Maybe you can just leave some 'special' tuna out on the back step and-"

"Bette-"

Every phone call.

"- first day of school!"

"Well of course he did! He's the smartest little boy in the whole wide world!"

"And he never would have done so well if you two hadn't raised him right!"

"You raised him too, Ma-Ba. You both did. And Daddy."

Every letter.

"- ittle Jimmy, we are so proud of how well you're doing in kindergarten."

"One day you're going to make an amazing doctor . . ."

"Or maybe even president of the United States . . ."

* * *

Every day.

". . . darling. We're just so tired."

"No problem. I'll be in in a bit, alright?"

"Alright."

"We love you."

"I love you two."

And every night.

 _Sister, I love you._

Her sister's voice floated out to her through the warm, drifting darkness of deep sleep.

And Bette heard it.

 _I love you too, Dot. But why?_

 _Because you are the other half of me._

 _Don't make jokes, Dorothy._

 _I'm not, Elizabeth. I love you. Always._

 _I love you._

And then she woke up.

Colder, thicker.

Heavier.

And more alone than she had ever been in her unique and fantastic life.

 _Sister?_

 _Sister?!_

* * *

 **Thanks, autumnrose2010, brigid1318, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing the last chapter!**

 **You ready for what's coming up?**


	97. What Love Will Do

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

 ***We're going full-out American Horror Story here, guys. Hang on.***

What Love Will Do

* * *

"Dot? _Dot_?!"

Her voice was barely more than a whisper in the dark, lonely night.

And the pain, the mental anguish, was unbelievable.

"Dorothy Jean Tattler, you _answer_ me now! Dot . . . _please_?"

She felt her panic rising, a terror she had never known in all her life sweeping over her, blotting out all understanding or knowledge in her existence but the knowledge that her dear beloved sister, her body mate, her _soul_ mate, was dead and gone forever.

Trapping the remaining survivor alone and abandoned in an encasement of connected dead flesh and congealing blood and rotting bone so long as she still drew breath.

 _Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god-_

It was too much. Far too much.

And at this rate of physical and mental and emotional strain, it would be not last long.

Her heart would simply burst in her chest cavity in a moment, her blood pressure rupture some unknown anuresym in her brain.

And she would die and this would all be over.

And finished.

Her head lashed from side to side, dark eyes squeezed shut in unholy terror.

Her gasping hand reached out blindly-

And felt him.

"Shhh, Bette, shhh. It's okay. Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me."

Elizabeth Ann Tattler Darling Walker hitched her breath in and out in tiny, little, desperate gasps.

Gutteral moans tearing from her throat.

"Bette. Bette. Look at me."

His voice was gentler, more soothing and kind that she had ever heard it.

"Bette, calm down and look at me."

Her lips parted then and her pain rushed forth.

"I _can't_ , Jimmy! I cannot calm down, my sister is _dead_ beside me and I am _alone_ -"

"No, no. It's okay, it's okay, Bette. You're not alone. I'm here and I'm going to take care of everything. Just like I promised, okay?"

Lips touched her forehead, pressing her tremors down just a little.

She opened her eyes almost against her will.

And saw him there.

Barely outlined in the dim light.

Jimmy, her Darling.

Hunched over next to the bed, leaning forward from the chair in which he had been sitting.

Stumped arms bracing him.

Eyes, dark and depthless in the dim light.

"Oh Jimmy, oh Jimmy, oh god, oh god, oh dear god-"

"Bette, turn on the lamp, okay? You know I can't do it without my hooks."

Muscle memory guided her hand and the room was bathed in dim glow.

Jimmy's aged, wrinkled face swam into her tear-blurred, half-blinded vision.

Without her permission, her head swiveled on her neck, bringing Dot's face into view.

It was peaceful and relaxed.

As if she were only sleeping and not dead at all.

But Bette could feel that she was gone.

"Dot? Sister?"

"Bette," Jimmy coaxed her gently back. "It's okay. Look at me. Bette. Look at me."

She pulled her entire being away from the visage of her dear dead sister.

And locked her terrified gaze onto Jimmy.

"I can't . . . I can't _feel_ her . . . I can't _hear_ her."

Jimmy nodded in agreement, swallowing hard, forcing himself be calm.

For her.

"Yeah, she's gone. And I'm sorry, Bette. But it's going to be alright. I'm going to take care of everything. Just like I promised, okay?"

She nodded, barely able to draw breath, barely able to think . . .

"There's a glass of water on the nightstand, Bette. And a bottle."

She angled her head and there was.

"I know you've had trouble sleeping at night lately . . ."

She shook her head.

"No, I haven't-"

"And you asked me to get you some pills."

He swallowed hard and forced his voice not to tremble. Too much.

"The pharmacist told me for you to be careful. Too many pills might cause an overdose and kill you."

Bette stared at him.

He was gazing at her, head tilted a little to the side, unknowingly giving her a look that was all Jimmy Darling.

His pain was there, she could see it even past her own, but he was holding it down beneath the surface in order to take care of her and do what must be done.

He was being strong for her, just like he had promised.

He was taking care of them, just like he had promised.

He was loving them, just like he had promised.

Then he managed to smile, look fondly upon her, dimple up, just a little bit.

"I love you, Bette. I love you so much."

Her burning, aching heart swelled and cracked then until her chest was on fire.

"I love you too, Jimmy."

Her trembling, clammy hand reached up and stroked his face.

And then before she could lose her nerve, Bette reached across for the bottle of pills.

The cap was loosed more than it should have been which was good because she only had the one hand to open it with and he didn't have any at all.

She took several and carefully swallowed them with water.

Then she took several more and on and on until the bottle was nearly empty.

It took some time.

There were a lot of pills. And she was not steady.

Jimmy watched her resolutely, wishing with all his heart that there was some other way.

Knowing there wasn't.

And determined to keep his face open and loving to her until she closed her eyes for the last time.

Finally, Bette put down the bottle, eyes heavy and lidded.

Her upset wasn't calming at all but it did seem farther away now.

And she was so sleepy. So very, very sleepy.

She reached out, bumping a clumsy hand against one withered stump before finding his forearm.

"She always loved you, Jimmy. She thought you were the most wonderful man alive . . ."

Her words trailed off for a moment while she gazed at him.

"And you are. You really are. You loved her, but you somehow managed to find room in your heart for me too."

He nodded, fighting back tears.

For her.

"Of course, Bette. I love you."

She smiled drowsily.

"Nobody else in the world would have found so much to give, Jimmy. Nobody would have seen us both together and separate. You're a wonderful man, Jimmy. I . . . love you so . . . much."

"I love you too, Bette."

"Those pills are working, I think."

Words were harder to form now.

"I think I'll close my eyes and maybe when I open them, I'll be with Dot again."

Jimmy nodded.

"Okay. Tell her I love her, okay? Tell her everything's gonna be alright."

Bette nodded vaguely, hand falling from his arm and pulling closely back to her own side.

"I will."

And then she closed her eyes and was quiet.

Still.

And peaceful.

Jimmy stayed as he was for a time, barely able to draw the smallest hint of breath.

Watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, seeing her entire portion of their shared body relaxing into unconsciousness.

He knew the pills might work.

And feared they would not.

And with all the love and determination in his own ailing body, Jimmy Darling picked up from the side of the nightstand the pillow Bette had not seen.

And laid it gently over her face.

He leaned as much of his weight as he dared on it.

His wall broke then and he burst into miserable, quiet sobbing, tears and snot flowing forth unheeded and unrestrained.

He wept down onto the pillow his wife lay under.

His wife who never made a move within conjoined body of her dead sister.

And he remained there.

As long as he had to.

Until he was convinced she was gone.

And then he let go.

Drew the pillow back from her lovely, pale face.

Just like her sister's.

But all her own.

That beautiful face, now still and dead.

And he knew the job was done, that horrible job he had done for his wives.

And he felt numb and empty and full of grief and guilt all at the same time.

 _Annabel's going to hate me for this._

He had laid his artificial appendages down next the pillow before settling in for the deathwatch earlier.

He put them in his lap now.

The hooks were old, straps worn.

He guessed he'd have to do them by himself now that his wives were dead and gone from him.

Jimmy Darling sat in a chair in front the bed where the conjoined body of Bette and Dot Tattler lay cooling.

They were still and silent.

They were peaceful.

They were gone.

But him and his worn straps remained.

When he had them secure, he rose slowly, body aching and weary.

He walked to the door and stopped.

Turned, just a little.

Just enough to see them still laying there.

 _Don't let us be gawked at Jimmy. Don't let them stare. Don't let them shame us like that._

 _Or you._

 _Or Annabel._

And then he went into the hall.

And made the phone call.

* * *

 **How you doing out there, gentle readers?**

 **This is one of the most difficult chapters I've ever had to post in my time here on fanfic. I won't lie or be tough about it.**

 **Thanks to autumnrose2010, brigid1318, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing previously. :)**


	98. Finally Free

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Finally Free

* * *

"-lose my license for this if it was found out, Jimmy."

"I know, Frank. But please . . ."

He swallowed thickly.

" _Please_ help me."

Frank Glen drew a deep, sorrowful breath.

"Let's get on with it then."

* * *

The black car was a rumbling shadow as it crept down the residential street.

Jimmy sat silently in the passenger seat, the mortician at the helm beside him.

His dead wives secured in the back on a folding gurney.

"Are you absolutely sure about this, Jimmy?"

Jimmy shook his head, staring down at his hooks.

"I can't take any chances," he said quietly, swallowing back fresh grief.

The mortician waited.

"This is what they wanted. They told me. No gawkers. No inspections. Just peace. This is the only way to make sure."

And they drove on under the moonless midnight sky.

* * *

". . . Your care. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

"Amen," Jimmy parroted hoarsely.

Then with the older man looking on in this highly unorthodox and impromptu funeral ceremony, he leaned forward and kissed Bette's still, cool forehead.

Walked around the contraption on which they lay.

And kissed Dot's as well.

His wives were dead.

Dead and gone.

One on her own as they lay sleeping.

And the other by his own hand ( _hand, what a joke_ ) as a promise kept to those whom he loved most.

He was dead inside himself now.

Numb. And hollow.

He nodded mutely at the dour man who cared for the dead.

That man who spoke now, one last supplication.

"Jimmy, are you sure? We can still make other arrangements."

He gazed down at the human remains of his beautiful, unique, precious, darling wives one final time.

He had to say it.

Give his consent.

Take the last step.

For them.

For his dead darlings.

So he spoke.

"I'm sure."

Jimmy watched as the mortician unwrapped his folded hands.

Watched him place the small metal identifying tags . . .

"Sure you want two?" he had asked earlier.

Watery-eyed chuckle as even in the face of Death, Jimmy'd found a moment of sentimental mirth.

"Yeah, yeah."

Sniff.

"Bette'd want her own too. Give me a earful otherwise."

Accommodating nod.

. . . over each heart in the conjoined chest.

And now as Jimmy watched, The Keeper of the Dead folded up the sides of the cardboard box on which Dot and Bette lay.

Deftly adjusted the lid.

A formality.

A nicety.

A gentle, last shielding of the living eyes.

From the bon appetite of the eager fire to human flesh.

Jimmy let it happen.

No.

He _chose_ for it to happen.

Meet the man's final gaze.

Force the nod.

And watched him press the button.

The conveyor belt rumbled to life.

Transferring the deceased body of Dorothy Jean and Elizabeth Ann Tattler Darling Walker slowly into the flames of the funeral home's incinerator.

He watched the whole time, the box entering the brick and cement-lined primary chamber.

Watched the metal door close with a final thud.

 _I love you, Dot._

 _I love you, Bette._

 _I love you two so much._

He watched.

He had to.

Until it was done.

His responsibility.

Take care of them.

Protect them.

Save them.

Always.

* * *

"The process will take an hour or two," his accomplice told him.

Jimmy did not shift.

"Okay."

A gentle hand touched down unobtrusively on his shoulder.

"Come on. I've got a pot on upstairs."

Statue Jimmy.

"I . . . can't leave them. I can't leave them alone."

Quiet voice, sincere tone.

"They're not alone, Jimmy. They're together. They're safe. Nothing and no one is going to hurt them anymore. We are the only two here tonight. The doors are locked. The windows are latched. It's just us."

The slightest pressure of fingers.

"Come on, son."

And Jimmy, slowly and painfully . . .

 _Is it okay, Bette? Is it okay, Dot? Is it okay?_

. . . went.

* * *

"They sure seemed like special ladies."

"They were. They were the best."

"Mind telling me how you met?"

Ancient, dimpled grin.

So long ago, so far away.

He felt ancient now.

"Oh. Well, uh, they were bein' threatened by a, uh, man with, uh, bad intentions. I saved 'em."

It was an amended tale to say the least.

* * *

The deed, the second deed, was done.

The remains gathered reverently into a sealed plastic bag.

Which was then placed reverently into a . . .

". . . urn. Perhaps place it on the mantle as a rememb-"

"No. I'm not going to keep them trapped up like that. They wouldn't like that."

"Alright then."

. . . holding box.

And placed reverently into . . .

"It's," a slightly baffled hint of morbid wonder. "It's so light."

. . . the arms of the remaining Walker.

"Yes, right at about nine pounds."

 _Nine pounds. That's all that's left. I'll be._

Jimmy paid him, cash.

"It's almost dawn. Let me give you a ride home."

And then . . .

"Alright."

. . . they went back the way they had come.

* * *

With his dead wives' ashes in his arms and his empty house at his back, Jimmy watched the mortician's tail-lights fade away until they disappeared.

Then he stood alone.

Thinking of what to do next.

What they would like.

What would make them happy.

 _Come on, girls, we're goin' for a ride._

* * *

Dot and Bette Tattler had, closer to the end of their extraordinary lives than the beginning, been more empowered, more capable, and more confident and content in who they were than most people had or required the courage to be.

But . . .

 _"We don't want to freckle."_

 _"And don't even bother trying that 'moonbathing' malarkey on us again, Jimmy, darling. You can only get away with that once!"_

Dimpled grin.

 _"Yes, ma'am."_

. . . they never had been quite brave enough to venture onto the beach.

Jimmy had.

Long enough to bring back his teenage daughter from an existential crisis.

And then drive her away to Jupiter.

And then home again.

 _"Colorado? Really?"_

 _"Yeah."_

For a while, anyway.

 _"Okay, then. If that's what you want."_

So, he figured, it was time.

Bette and Dot.

Dot and Bette.

They had never been.

"Okay, girls, we're here."

To the beach.

"Whaddya think?"

Until now.

* * *

The Tampa waves were beautiful, fresh and salty and surging.

They rolled in, they rolled out.

They washed everything away.

Bette and Dot Tattler did not deserve to be shut up in a box on a dusty mantle somewhere.

Shut away and vulnerable to prying eyes and seeking hands.

They deserved to be free.

More free than they ever had been in their real lives of constraint and encasement and acceptance.

He would not shut them away, he would not hide them.

And he would not leave them to be discovered and gawked at.

Stolen and examined and violated.

No.

The man with no hands pried open the box.

Clumsily tore open the bag with his hooks.

And stood, the wind at his back and the summer sun peeking over his shoulder.

Speckling the waves with hopeful morning rays.

And set them free.

Scattered on the wind.

To fly anywhere. Everywhere.

To any and all corners of the wide world as they so wished to venture.

Free now and unencumbered by physical form and societal stigmas.

Heartless mockery and peering eyes.

Craning necks and cruel whisperings.

He let them go.

Away from him.

But always, always with him in his broken, shattered heart.

Forever.

And he did not, as much as he wanted to . . .

 _I love you, girls.  
_

. . . follow them . . .

 _I love you so much._

. . . into the waves.

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing an intense previous chapter.**

 **You all are a resilient lot. :)**

 **But, you know, it's not over. And I'm really interested to see what your response is to the upcoming interaction. I think I can already predict.**


	99. For The Living

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

For the Living

* * *

"You need to come home, Annabel."

"Why, what's up, Daddy?"

"It's your moms."

* * *

Her arms were crossed over her chest.

Tight. Still.

Holding herself together by sheer force of will.

He had just said it.

Said it.

Like it was _nothing_.

Like it was all _over_.

Which, for him, she guessed, it was.

But for her it had only just begun.

Right there. In the front yard. Right there, he had met her.

She had hugged him and he had hugged her back and she had first asked her question again.

"What's up, Daddy? What's going on with Moms?"

His shoulders had stiffened.

And she had felt it.

And the sick, churning dread.

Drawing back, looking him in the eye.

"Daddy?"

And he had spoken.

"They're gone, Annabel. They died."

And she had been confused.

Letting go. Stepping back.

And wrapping her arms around herself.

In fear. In confusion. In dread.

" _When_? _Where_? Can I see them?"

And he had shaken his graying head slowly.

"No, baby. I'm sorry."

And her confusion had grown.

"What do you mean? Where _are_ they?"

Jimmy had shook his head again.

"They're gone, Annabel. Cremated."

And she had stared in shock.

"Dad, what the hell are you _talking_ about?"

He had just stood there, not answering her.

And he had looked so old.

So old and tired.

" _Daddy_?"

* * *

Jimmy Darling Walker had looked into the mismatched eyes of his only child.

Searching. Seeking. Questioning.

And he had known he had to answer her.

And that she might not understand.

Probably would not understand.

And he might lose her forever because of it.

But he answered her.

Because she was his daughter.

And he had no choice.

"They died, Annabel. At home. Ma-Da . . ." he swallowed thickly. "Dot. First. Then Bette."

She was breathing heavy, pretty face a confused, building storm.  
"Daddy. What did you do?"

He didn't look at her, not directly.

Only turned away from the hot, burning Florida sun.

Into the lonely, empty house.

"You'd better come on in."

* * *

"But . . . but . . . _why_?"

She had come alone. He had requested it.

He sat hunched forward, elbows on knees.

Staring blindly at the wooden hands he had chosen to wear today.

Old and worn.

And still strong and unyielding.

Unlike him, he felt.

So weak and old.

He had never felt so weak and old and lost.

Not in so very long a time.

So very, very long.

"Why didn't you take them to the _hospital_? Why did you just . . . _discard_ them like that? Like . . . like you were just _done_ with them or something?"

Razor sharp pains would've pierced his heart, ripping him to pieces.

"Annabel, no . . ."

If he'd had a heart to feel anymore.

". . . no, honey, no, they . . ."

If he'd even been alive.

"Annabel, that's exactly what they were afraid of. Being looked at and examined and pulled apart and put back together. They didn't want that for themselves. Or me. Or you. Especially you."

He looked up then.

Found her staring at him.

Those eyes, mismatched and piercing.

"They didn't want you to feel like your mothers were freaks and on display to be stared at and talked over. And they didn't want you to have the responsibility of helping them pass either. Or be set free. They didn't want you to bear the responsibility of doing something that was, well, kind of undercover like that in case questions were asked. They wanted freedom for you. They wanted peace for all of us, Annabel."

Her mouth was opening and closing like a stunned fish.

He stopped talking, dropped his face down away from her.

Then pulled it back up.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to say goodbye to them, Annabel. They . . . they loved you more than anything in this world. And, and I know I've said that before but . . . it's true, it's really true. You were their miracle, just that you were even here and they only wanted to protect us all in the end and . . ."

He stopped, unable to continue, then forced his words on.

"I took care of them in the end . . . the best way I could. I had to. And I didn't want to do what I did. But there was no choice."

He dropped his head again.

"And I'm sorry I hurt you with this, Annabel. But I had to take care of them. I was the only one that could. The only way I knew how. So they could have peace."

Neither of them said anything for a long while.

Jimmy honestly didn't think he could anymore.

He felt, rather than saw, Annabel stir.

Rise.

Slowly.

And then, without saying anything, she left.

He let her.

It was all he could do.

* * *

She came back in a little while later.

Stood in the doorway.

Not near him.

Away.

"I'm going back home, Daddy."

Away.

"Okay."

He felt numb. Empty. Lost.

"I can't . . . I don't . . ."

Jimmy looked at her. Nodded.

"I know, Annabel. It's okay."

There was silence for a minute.

Then his daughter spoke again.

"I'll call you when I get home."

He nodded again.

And then she was gone.

* * *

She called two hours later.

Jimmy, dozing in the chair, roused . . .

 _Who is it, Bette?_

. . . and stumbled to the phone.

"Hello?"

"We have to have a wake, Daddy."

 _Dot, Annabel wants a cake. Do you girls have time to make her one before Murder She Wrote?_

"A what?"

"A wake! A funeral! A closing ceremony! _Something_!"

She was shouting now and he let her.

"God, Daddy! It's like you didn't even _care_ about them!"

He did care about them.

Had.

Always.

Would.

Always.

It was just . . .

"Don't 'Annabel' _me_ , Patrick!"

. . . he . . . couldn't . . .

"Daddy!"

. . . think.

"What?"

Her fury was a white hot thing.

"Are you even _hearing_ me?!"

Distant nod.

"Yeah, honey. Of course. We'll have a service for them. Don't you worry."

The line was quiet for a moment.

And he thought she had gone.

And knew that he would let her.

And then-

"We'll be up in the morning, okay? To arrange everything."

"Okay."

And then she really was gone.

* * *

And have a funeral they did.

In a few days' time.

And everybody in the entire town, it seemed, came.

To see Jimmy. To see Annabel.

To see Patrick and Little Jimmy and the empty box.

The empty box.

They didn't know it, of course, those that came to mourn.

No one knew.

No one but Jimmy and Patrick and Annabel.

And the man who had helped Jimmy burn his dead wives to free ash in the first place, Frank Glen.

 _They_ knew the box was empty.

As Jimmy knew his heart was.

 _I love you, Bette. I love you, Dot._

To go with his empty heart.

 _I miss you._

People milled around.

But he didn't see them.

Knelt or sat and talked.

But he didn't hear them.

Oh, he looked at them.

Smiled and said polite things.

And they responded and hugged and patted.

And then eventually wandered off again.

And he remained.

Even Annabel.

Back and forth and back and forth.

Talking. Guiding. Directing. Comforting.

He guessed.

Patrick would have stayed still.

Next to him, he supposed.

But he had Little Jimmy.

And even a good seven year old at a funeral is still a seven year old at a funeral.

So Patrick and Little Jimmy were here and there and yonder.

And Jimmy let them.

Because they could.

Move and breathe and think and function.

Without the amazing, unbelievable, unflappable Tattler Twins.

And he, Jimmy Darling, could not.

He went through the motions.

He stood when he was told.

He sat when he was told.

He looked where he was told and closed his eyes when he was told.

He walked when he was told.

And Tom Clark drove the car to the cemetary.

Jimmy in the seat next to him.

Annabel and Patrick and Little Jimmy in the back.

Kathy behind in another car with part of Patty's horde.

Everybody loved. Everybody cared.

And Jimmy could not . . .

 _I love you, Dot. I love you, Bette._

. . . feel any of it.

* * *

They took him home afterward.

After they lowered the empty pine box into the ground.

And covered it with dirt.

Stood and prayed and sang and wept.

And then went home.

Pulled funeral food out of the kitchen.

Ate. Drank. Etcetera.

Turned on the TV for Little Jimmy.

And he and Big Silent Jimmy sat and watched it.

The artificial lights and tinny sounds flowing unheeded and unnoticed like waves over the latter.

While he floated in a Tattler-less void of emptiness and grief.

Vaguely aware that Annabel and Patrick were having a mostly controlled argument . . .

". . . my _mothers_ , Patrick! And then just got rid of them without even telling me or letting me say goodbye! I'm not going to just _pretend_ that didn't happen!"

. . . in her old bedroom . . .

"I really don't think it's like that, Annabel. And I really don't think you do either."

. . . about something that he just couldn't bring himself to focus on.

And then Patrick, face carefully blank and set, came into the living room.

And talked more at Jimmy's face.

". . . eat?"

". . . drink?"

". . . sleep?"

And Jimmy let him.

* * *

They left the next morning.

Nearly beating the sun to Brandon's hazy dawn horizons.

Annabel cutting a stormy path back and forth from the house to the car and back again.

Patrick, face drawn and riddled with worry, wavered in front of him time and again.

Speaking. Patting.

Caring.

And Jimmy appreciated it. He really did.

 _Good boy, he's a good boy. Dot and Bette always said he was such a good boy._

And Jimmy smiled. Talked.

Hooks couldn't return pats.

And Little Jimmy, the little scamp.

Playing with his LEGOs.

Playing with his pupper, Sam.

Sweet little kid. Even if he did have ten whole fingers.

And then, at least in his daughter's mind, it was time to go.

For her.

". . . go."

For Patrick.

". . . in the car."

And Little Jimmy Anderson.

". . . your toys, come on."

And that was okay too.

They needed to, he guessed.

 _Nothin' good doing here anyway._

Everyone on the road.

Everyone roll out.

Last call.

That's it.

Except . . .

". . . on, Sam. Come on, boy."

And Sam, standing next to Statue Jimmy in the yard, whined.

And plopped his butt down.

And did not move.

". . . dog, Patrick! I want to get home before rush hour."

Patrick Anderson, a man of medium build.

Cleanly trimmed brown hair.

Hazel eyes.

Patrick.

Who'd never had a family before this one.

Who'd saved a dog from a shelter, rescued him and brought him home.

Transplanted himself halfway across the country for the woman he loved.

And, gladly it seemed, gave everything he could for the family he had been gifted.

Stood in the humid Florida morning.

Ignored his beyond infuriated wife's strident demand.

And looked at the man. The dog.

And advanced.

"I think he wants to stay with you."

Jimmy looked down at the canine and up to his son-in-law.

"He's not my dog."

Patrick stopped. Seemed to consider.

"Wanna go home, boy? Go get in the car."

A very well-trained dog.

Intelligent, smart.

Understanding.

Who whined.

And did not move.

And Patrick, his owner, looked again at Jimmy.

"I think he is right now."

Jimmy looked down and up.

Didn't say anything.

So Patrick did.

"It's Tuesday. Why don't we come see you Friday? See how's he doing? See what you want to do then?"

Jimmy looked down and up again.

"What about Annabel? Little Jimmy? He's their dog too."

Patrick smiled thinly, humorlessly.

"Not right now he's not."

Pain in his eyes. Pain in his voice.

Pain Jimmy could not feel. Because Jimmy could not feel.

"Okay."

Patrick bent down.

Scratched the set canine behind the ears while the world turned.

"Take care of him, Sam."

And the returning whine and tail wag.

Then Patrick straightened.

And locked eyes with Jimmy again.

"I love you, Jimmy," he said simply, without embarrassment or awkwardness. "All my life I wished for a father like you've been to me. Annabel doesn't understand, she's not listening and she's not thinking. She's just hurt and in pain. If we didn't have Little Jimmy, I'd stay here and make sure you were okay. But I can't not take care of him."

Jimmy nodded vaguely.

The boy, his grandson.

 _Of course. Love him._

"I there's Alpo in the cabinet for Sam. I'll bring more Friday."

Jimmy nodded.

And Patrick clenched his jaw, then released.

"And don't . . . don't die, okay? I know you miss them. I do too. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to Annabel. But please. Don't die."

Jimmy nodded again.

"You're a good man, Patrick."

Patrick nodded. Tears in his eyes.

"Thank you."

And then they went.

And Jimmy stayed.

With Scruffy Sam the Sublime right next to him.

* * *

 **Honestly, I don't know if Scruffy Sam the Sublime's actions are actually plausible. But 1) it's American Horror Story, 2) he's called Scruffy Sam the Sublime for a reason, and 3) I felt like it. ;)**

 **Anyway, thanks to midnightrebellion86, brigid1318, and autumnrose2010 for taking the time to review previously!**

 **Three more chapters to go! Can you believe it?**


	100. Keeping the Old Man Alive

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Keeping the Old Man Alive

* * *

Neighbors came by here and there.

Kathy.

Lucy.

Brought casseroles and sandwiches in disposable containers.

Chatted. Petted the dog.

Made small talk.

And eventually left.

Nobody stayed.

Nobody could.

And he understood.

It wasn't their burden.

Wasn't their lot.

Their grief.

Life went on.

For everyone but Jimmy Darling.

* * *

When Sam sat near the front door, Jimmy walked him.

When Sam sat near his food bowl, Jimmy fed him. Watered him.

When Jimmy went to bed at night, Scruffy Sam the Sublime lay on the floor peacefully at the end of the bed until morning.

When Jimmy brushed his teeth and used the facilities and cleaned his body and attended to his daily needs, the dog positioned himself within the space, quiet as a mouse.

Quiet and watching.

When Jimmy ate his simple meals of toast and butter, or ham sandwiches with pickles, or leftover neighbor-provided tuna noodle casserole, the dog stayed within eyesight.

And never begged for food.

When the phone rang at eight-thirty p.m. every night, the dog went and sat below it, beady little eyes staring presumptively at Jimmy until he got up and answered it.

"Hi, Jimmy, this is Patrick. How's Sam?"

He called every night.

"Fine."

As loquacious as Jimmy Darling had once been . . .

"He's fine."

it was now difficult . . .

"He sat under the phone starin' at me 'til I answered it."

. . . to think of things to say.

"He's very good at talking with his eyes. Given me a lengthy lecture once or twice without saying a word."

And when Patrick appeared alone on Friday afternoon . . .

"I'm, uh, sorry Little Jimmy's not with me. I was planning to bring him but, uh, Annabel picked him up from school early and took him to the zoo."

. . . the dog wagged his tail . . .

"Oh. Yeah. That's good. All those animals."

. . . and stayed in Jimmy's lap.

"So how are you and Sam getting along?"

All whole time.

"Quietest roommate I ever had. And that's sayin' a lot. Bette and Dot, they could scream with their silence when they were mad."

God, it hurt to say their names.

Say their names without hearing their cheery voices call back . . .

 _"Yes, Jimmy, darling?"_

 _"Why can we do for you?"_

. . . flirtatiously.

Patrick nodded.

Smiled.

And talked.

"I remember one time, they told me . . ."

And Jimmy watched him.

 _Funny_ , he thought dimly. _I always thought he was the quiet one._

And then about six-thirty or so . . .

"I thought you worked nights, Patrick."

"Oh, I switched to tomorrow so I could come for a visit."

"Oh."

"But I do want to tuck Little Jimmy in. So I guess I'd better get going."

And Jimmy stood, gently depositing the aging mutt onto the floor.

"Yeah, that's good. That's important. Sam, ready to go home?"

The dog whined.

And plopped his butt down on the carpet beside the Tattler-less elder again.

Patrick smiled.

"No, I think he still belongs to you."

Knelt.

Petted.

Directed.

"Take care of him, Sam. Keep him alive."

And rose.

"I'll come back Wednesday. Is that okay?"

Jimmy nodded.

"Sounds fine."

And that was that.

* * *

Nightly calls.

Twice a week visits.

A dog near the door, the food bowl.

The bed. The shower.

And no Annabel.

A week.

A month.

Then two.

And no . . .

". . . park."

". . . museum."

". . . toy store."

. . . Annabel or Little Jimmy.

Only Patrick.

Jimmy had the feeling Annabel was keeping Little Jimmy from him.

 _Stay away from the creepy man, baby. He kills people._

He understood, he did.

Nothing but death here.

Then and now.

First Dot and Bette.

Now him.

Eventually.

It was only a matter of time now.

Once the dog was done attempting to keep him alive.

"Ready to go, Sam?"

Whine.

 _Nope._

And that would be . . .

"I'll see you Wednesday, Jimmy. Keep him alive, Sam."

. . . that.

* * *

Then one day, as Gladys Muchin's daughter was cleaning up the house, . . .

". . . okay, Jimmy?"

"Sure, Gladys. Thank you. I never was very good at cleanin'."

"Well, it's the least I can do. You know, Bette and Dot were always such a delight to be around . . ."

. . . she found them.

". . . Walker? Behind the desk in the spare room."

Letters.

All sealed up already in their envelopes.

They hadn't had time to mail them, he guessed.

Finally run out.

And since they were sealed, he didn't open them.

Could hardly bear to spare them a passing glance.

"Thanks, Dolores. I appreciate that."

 _Dot and Bette's letters. Not mine._

 _I don't write very well._

"Will you send them off for me?"

"Sure, Mr. Walker. No problem."

* * *

It has been documented time and again that a human being can withstand extreme amounts of strain and duress.

Physical and emotional.

Withstand and survive.

In the days and weeks and months following the untimely . . .

 _They were fine at Christmas!_

. . . deaths of her mothers . . .

 _Weren't they?_

. . . Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .

 _I mean, god, they were_ them _, . . ._

. . . was the pure definition of subdued strain and duress.

. . _. you know?_

She slept.

 _"Moms, where'd Daddy get his dimples? Did somebody poke his cheeks real hard like Aunt Kathy does to me?"_

 _"Yes, darling-"_

 _"- that's exactly what happened."_

She woke.

". . . morning in Sarasota. The temperature today will be a balmy . . ."

She went to work.

". . . Ana Darling. Next up, a little George Michael followed by today's discussion of Nelson Mandela . . ."

She chatted with friends.

". . . okay, Annabel? You seem a little . . . out of sorts."

 _Yeah, I mean, my dad killed my moms and then cremated them before I even got a chance to say goodbye. I'm . . ._

". . . fine, Gene. Thanks."

She went home.

". . . cake?"

"Yes. Devil's food."

 _Moms used to make devil's food cake._

"I think I'm going to be sick."

She spent time with her son.

". . . Lumen at school today said if I kissed her cheek she'd grow a Cabbage Patch baby in her stomach and we would have to get married."

 _Moms? Help? Oh._

"I'm not sure if you should be kissing or listening to Debbie Lumen anymore."

She fought with her husband.

". . . him Sunday-"

"No. I'm not going down there and neither is Jimmy!"

"Annabel, he's all alone-"

"I don't care! I hate him!"

And she hated. Oh how she hated.

She hated the commercials on TV.

". . . beef?!"

 _Ma-Ba used to love that commercial._

She hated the music on the radio.

". . . time for us . . . there's no place for us . . ."

She hated her father.

". . . want you to have the responsibility. . ."

 _Responsibility?! They're my_ mothers _!_ You _didn't even bother to take the responsibility to take them to the hospital!_

She hated her husband.

". . . him, Annabel? I think he'd really love to hear your voice."

"No, Patrick! I'm not talking to him again! Ever!"

"Annabel-"

She hated her husband's _dog_.

". . . stay with my _dad_? Doesn't he know he's _your_ dog?!"

"Not right now he's not. Right now he belongs with him."

"Who says?!"

"Sam."

She even hated her son.

"Mom, can we go see Granddaddy tomorrow?"

"No. Maybe next weekend."

"But you said that last weekend!"

She hated her house.

 _Aunt Lucy's house had painted strawberries on the kitchen cabinets._

 _And it was right next to Moms' house._

She hated her job.

 _Could have been there. I could have been there if I'd just taken some shit nothing job in Brandon. Even Tampa. Oh god._

And, of course, she hated herself.

 _I never told them. I never told them how amazing they were. How they were awesome and the best moms ever. I never told them I loved them. I mean, I_ told _them. But I never_ told _them. Because I just didn't_ know _._

So she stewed. She quietly raged.

She fumed.

She loathed.

Everybody and everything around her.

And she cried.

Big, rolling, miserable tears of shame and grief and self-hate.

But only in the shower.

Only alone.

And never, ever . . .

 _I should have been there._

. . . front of anybody.

 _I should have been there._

Ever.

 _I should have been there._

* * *

The mail was there when she came home that day.

Right there in the mailbox.

Like it was just any other day.

And she saw them.

 _What?_

The letters.

 _Moms?_

As if they were still at home. Alive and well.

Writing letters, baking pies, and watching The Bold and The Beautiful.

And she . . .

 _Ma-Da? Ma-Ba?_

. . . sat right down on the hot, dry grass . . .

 _Is it really you?_

. . . and opened the one addressed to her with trembling fingers.

* * *

 _Dear Annabel,_

 _This letter may seem strange to you when you read it. Or maybe you'll understand completely which will break my heart even further. We left these for when the time comes so hopefully they did not get lost in the mail._

 _Bette and I have not been feeling well lately and we're concerned our time on this earth is drawing to a close. If it is, please know that we love you deeply and it has been our greatest joy being your mothers and watching you grow and mature all these years._

 _If you are angry with your father, Annabel, please forgive him. He was only acting as requested by Bette and I and you know how persuasive we can be. He was protecting all of us from undue pain and shame and embarrassment. Be kind and forgiving to him, dear daughter, he is a good man and has always tried to be so._

 _Please enjoy your life to the fullest and be happy, Annabel, however that may be for you._

 _We love you always and forever,_

 _Ma-Da_

* * *

 _Dear Annabel,_

 _I have no idea what Dot is writing over there as we sit here at the kitchen table but I have no doubt it's just as heartfelt as the letter I am writing._

 _She's probably telling you about your father and how he took care of us at the end when we needed him most. I don't know what that will be yet exactly but I trust him and believe he will do what is necessary to protect us and you._

 _Dot and I love you, Annabel, more than you could possibly know. We have been so grateful to be your mothers all these years. Nothing could have brought us greater joy. I know you're probably thinking of all the times we all caused each other pain but that is a part of every life and we wouldn't have traded any of that for the world if it meant being without you._

 _We don't really know if there's a heaven or hell but we do know that wherever we are, we love you and cherish you always._

 _Please forgive your father if you are angry with him; he loves you so. We requested he keep the burden of decision from you in this regard to protect you._

 _We love you, Annabel, and we treasure you always._

 _Ma-Ba_

* * *

There were letters for Patrick and Jimmy too.

She did not open them.

But she did sit in the blazing hot Sarasota sun and cry a well of tears of grief and release until she was drained and empty and exhausted.

Right there.

Right out there in the middle of the wide open world.

Where anyone . . .

"Annabel, baby? Hey . . ."

"Patrick-"

. . . could see.

* * *

 **Stage two, anger. Yeah. Along with some others.**

 **And of course, she is Jimmy Darling's darling daughter.**

 **Reasonable feelings don't really come into play always, do they?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midrebellion86 for reviewing previously.**

 **Two chapters to go.**


	101. Always

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Always

* * *

He had thought about performing one last time, on Halloween. Juggle. Sing. Anything. To make him come and see.

But if he had no hands, he was no longer a freak, was he? He was just a man. A man with no hands.

A freakless freak. Without a Halloween.

And therefore, uninteresting to the creature the fearful, whispering sideshow carnies knew as Edward Mordrake.

Plus, Jimmy reminded himself in his darkest of nights, if he did somehow manage to die by the undead hand of the double-faced aristocrat, he would never again be reunited with his darling wives.

And that, for Jimmy, would be Hell.

So he endured.

Day after endlessly dull, Tattler-less day.

* * *

And then, it happened.

"Hi, Daddy."

She finally called.

Not Patrick.

Not a telemarketer.

Not a wrong, drunk . . .

"Hey, man, tell Terry to come to the phone, man."

Sorry, son, you've got the wrong number."

"Oh bullshit, man, I know he's there. Put him on the _phone_."

. . . dumbass.

"Hi, Annabel. How are ya?"

Her reply, though civil, sounded somewhat strained.

"Daddy, Patrick and I have been talking."

Words clipped.

"Oh yeah? What's going on?"

But calm and composed.

"And, well . . ."

And she stopped.

And he waited.

He had all the time in the world.

Time.

He was just biding it until he could be with his darlings again anyway.

If only it didn't have to go so _slow_.

And then Annabel spoke again.

". . . we want you to come live with us."

With certainty.

"In Sarasota."

And Jimmy, of course, adamantly refused.

"No, Annabel. You've got your own life. I don't want to get in the w-"

But Annabel was Annabel.

Especially when she had made up her mind.

Just like . . .

 _Bette and Dot. Girls, I swear, she's just like you._

. . . her mothers.

"You won't be in the way, Daddy. We _want_ you with us. And so does Little Jimmy. He needs his granddaddy."

"Annabel, you don't need the burden of-"

"Daddy, I love you, but that's a load of shit. We have an extra room. We want you. Please. I'm sorry I shut you out. I was wrong. Please come be with us now."

So, to cool the fire in his daughter's heart and to lighten the heaviness his own, Jimmy Darling Walker, packed up his things.

And went.

* * *

The house sold.

Record time.

Young couple, just starting out.

He nodded and smiled and wished them well.

". . . leaks in the humidity sometimes. Just lettin' ya know."

Then sat himself in the passenger seat of his son-in-law's Rabbit . . .

"Are you okay, sir?"

And Jimmy managed a passing smile.

"What'd I tell ya about that 'sir' there, Patrick?"

Patrick, good bo-,er, _man_ , amending once more.

Almost a cadence between the two of them now.

"Jimmy. Are you alright, Jimmy?"

"Yep, just about. It's justa house, ya know."

And they both knew, as Annabel would so kindly put it later on in response to her husband's retelling, that statement was full of shit.

But the orphan Patrick Anderson . . .

"Okay. Would you like to stay and say goodbye another minute?"

"No. No. Time to move on. Life's for the livin'."

. . . knew when to let brave words be brave words . . .

"Alright. Come on, Sam."

. . . in the hearts of those who manage to speak them.

"We'll take Poplar, I think."

And when not to drive past the boarded up old storefront that used to be Clark's Grocery.

* * *

Life was different in Sarasota.

More noise . . .

"Hey, Granddaddy!"

"Hey, Little Man!"

More mess.

"And the Cheerios spoon launch is a success!"

"Yeah, it sure is. Can you get 'em out my hair? Thanks."

"What's going on in here?"

"Nothing."

"Why is Sam covered in breakfast cereal?"

"Uhhh . . ."

More everything.

"Going on the trolley tour with us Sunday, Daddy?"

"Sure, Annabel, sounds like fun."

And Jimmy, adjusting to life outside Brandon, Florida, grew to love it.

* * *

It was a good five years.

". . . lunch with me, Daddy?"

"Sure. We'll call it a date."

"You got it, Daddy."

Not always good.

"How'd you do that to your arm, Little Man?"

Life's not that way.

"Chuck said I couldn't do a backward somersault off the trampoline into the pool at his house."

"How'd that work out for ya?"

"Duh."

But mostly . . .

". . . -ya Harding, Jimmy? I didn't know girls could be so violent."

"I did."

. . . after a while . . .

"Really?"

. . . life's just . . .

"Yep. I'll tell you a story one day."

. . . life.

* * *

And then, one Saturday afternoon, he felt more tired than usual.

Heart aching thick and dull in his chest.

"Think I'm gonna lay down for a while."

And Annabel's heterchromiated eyes zeroed in on her father.

She was thirty-five now. Strands of grey now just starting to streak her blondish brown hair.

She fretted over it, he knew.

She had no idea how beautiful she really was.

"Sure, Daddy. You okay?"

He summoned a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Just tired."

She went to him then, hugged him tight.

"Okay. I love you, Daddy."

"I love you, Annabel. See you in a bit, alright?"

He pet the dog.

"That's a good boy, Sam."

And met Patrick just coming out of his twelve year old's room where . . .

". . . you next time-"

. . . the boy seemed to have just been in the process of beating the stuffing out of his father in WWF Raw.

"Yeah, I'd like to see you try, Dad!"

And faced Jimmy's smiling mug.

"He's just so much better at that than me."

Jimmy nodded.

"I don't even think hands would help me beat 'im, ha. Listen, I'm gonna lay down a while."

Patrick nodded amicably.

Jimmy poked his head in his grandson's room momentarily.

"Hey, Little Man! I love ya!"

Goodnatured eye-roll from the prepubescent boy.

"Granddad, I'm not little, I'm twelve!"

"I know, Little Man."

Then he turned back to his smiling son-in-law.

Jimmy wished he had a real hand to lay on the forty year old's shoulder.

"I'm proud to call you my son, Patrick. You're a good man and I love you."

He was old now. Old and wiser and unencumbered by the cares and concerns of youth.

He could say it now because he felt it.

Say it and not care how uncool it sounded.

Patrick, younger and far wiser than Jimmy by a good three decades, responded without hesitation or embarrassment.

"I love you too. Sir."

They grinned at each other in mutual love.

"You take care of them now, Patrick. And make them take care of you too. That's part of the deal. You take care of each other."

Patrick nodded in agreement.

"We do. Thank you."

Then his face became a puzzle.

"I thought you were just going to lay down for a while."

Jimmy nodded, shrugging.

"I am. Sometimes though, at my time of life, things have to be said when they're thought or you miss remembering to say them."

Then he shuffled on, vaguely aware his son-in-law was probably staring at his slightly hunched back in unease.

 _I sure do love 'em. All of 'em._

 _Sure gonna miss 'em._

* * *

In his room, he undid his hooks, letting them slip them down onto the floor by his bedside.

Relieving his shriveled, aching stumps of their forty-five year burden.

Already feeling lighter, more relieved.

The afternoon light soft and warming on the comforter of the single bed.

He sank into it, sighing deeply as his weary bones groaned and ached.

 _I wish, I wish . . ._

 _I wish I had my hands again._

 _I'd touch their faces and stroke their hair._

 _I'd hold their hands._

 _And tell them all how much I love them._

 _I'd tell them all._

 _Did I?_

 _Did I tell them all?_

Then Jimmy Darling Walker closed his weary dark eyes.

And went to sleep.

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midrebellion86 for reviewing previously.**

 **Final scene tomorrow.**


	102. Darling

I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Darling

* * *

Standing on a darkened hill, lit by a full harvest moon, Jimmy Darling knew he felt . . . different.

Younger, stronger.

All his aches and pains gone, winked away in the blink of an eye.

He rubbed his hands together, breathing deep the cool, clean night air.

Feeling an invigoration he had not felt in years coursing it's way through his-

 _. . ._

 _Hands_.

Slowly, with heart pounding wildly in his chest, Jimmy Darling raised his arms up.

Dumbfounded.

In disbelief.

And blossoming joy.

 _My hands. My_ hands _._

They were there, right at the ends of his wrists as if they had been there all along.

Wonderful, beautiful hands.

Fused and lobstered.

 _My hands._

He clenched them into fists. Uncurled them and spread them wide.

Wiggled them and waggled them.

Touched them one to the other.

Palms. Fingertips. Knuckles.

Joints. Skin. Hair. Nails.

They were, they were . . . Perfect.

"Jimmy?"

The gentle feminine Southern surreash floated to him on the quickening breeze.

He turned.

And there they stood.

Together. And themselves.

His darlings.

Dot and Bette.

Bette and Dot.

Young again.

Healthy.

Just as they had been when he had first met them.

"Hey."

Only happy.

And at peace.

"Hey."

They moved toward him smoothly, smiles growing ever wider.

Joints easy and fluid.

Aches and pains and miseries all gone.

"We've been waiting for you, darling."

"We knew you'd be along when it was time."

He grinned his youthful dimples and tossed out one of his trademark Jimmy winks.

Devilishly charming and dashing.

"What're a couple of beautiful broads like you doin' out here in the moonlight?"

His lovely ladies, with their dark, sparkling eyes, giggled in unison.

Like raindrops on clovers.

Or whatever that old saying had been.

"Oh Jimmy . . ."

And his heart warmed further.

He reached out for them, gently cradling each smiling oval face in a warm, strong lobster claw.

Face smoothing into complete ease.

"I missed you girls."

And then, with his heart full of love and happiness, Jimmy kissed his darlings.

First Dot, then Bette.

Gazing deeply into their eyes before he did so.

Each in turn.

Then in unison, they pressed their heads together.

The three of them.

Jimmy. And Bette. And Dot.

United once more.

Breathing each other in. Soaking.

Relishing.

Loving.

And then, arms wrapped around each other still, they faced once more the way they'd come.

And gazed out into the darkness.

It was Dot who spoke.

Voice similar to her sister's.

But all her own.

Jimmy knew their individual voices, had always known them.

"She's still out there, isn't she?"

The Lobster Boy nodded.

"Yeah. She's still out there. She's still got a long way to go yet, I think."

Bette's voice sounded a little concerned.

"Do you think she'll be okay without us?"

Jimmy considered. But not very long.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. We raised her well. And she's got a few good people around her she can trust. That's the best any of us can hope for. She'll be okay."

Dot sound wistful when she spoke next.

Longing.

"We'll miss her."

Bette chimed in.

"She's so beautiful, so wonderful."

"She is. We've been so blessed by her."

"Yes. So very, very blessed by them all."

"Yes. All of them."

The tinkling sound drifted to them then, on gentle evening zephyrs.

Whimsical and tinny. Tickling their ears, awakening sleeping memories.

They turned together, three pairs of eyes scanning the darkness.

And there it was.

Multi-colored fairy lights and gently flapping homemade banners.

Trails of tents and well worn paths.

Shiny silver trailers and even one wooden one, thick and heavy with the sturdiness of the vaudeville.

The creak of the abandoned Ferris wheel.

"We hear there's a big show tonight," Dot murmured. "All sold out."

Bette smiled.

"The owner's offered us front row seats. If you're interested."

Jimmy nodded congenially.

"Yeah, sounds like a real sweet deal. We'll head off soon."

Dot raised a mischievous eyebrow.

"Grab a bag of popcorn?"

And Bette, her partner in crime.

"Maybe some cotton candy?"

Jimmy nodded.

"Sure, that'd be real swell. But first . . ."

He turned, kissed them both again, one at a time, sweet and gentle.

"Let's stay here just a few minutes longer. Just us."

His darlings smiled beatifically.

"That sounds wonderful, Jimmy."

"Just what we need."

"I love you, Bette. I love you, Dot."

"We love you too, Jimmy Darling."

"Yes. Always."

* * *

 **"I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and have suffered enough."**

 **This is a quote from Pinterest attached to something called Seventy Years of Sleep.**

 **Though I'm not certain what that is, I think this quote is perfect for this particular ending to this story.**

 **Although we do know the story never really ends. ;)**

 **I have throughly enjoyed writing for these characters. They have become beautiful to me in a way I had not anticipated.**

 **And if you're frustrated that this story about Annabel did not end with Annabel, well, maybe that's because her story isn't over yet. She's still out there, just like Jimmy said.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing the previous chapter and so many before that. Thank you for encouraging me not to give up on this tale even when I got tired or blocked or simply distracted. You're so very patient and gracious.**

 **And thank all of you, gentle readers, for coming along on this journey with us. I hope you have enjoyed it.**

 **Happy trails to you and happy reading of whatever you like!**

 **The End.**


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